DavidLagercrantz

THEGIRLINTHESPIDER’S

WEB

TranslatedfromtheSwedishbyGeorgeGoulding

ContinuingStiegLarsson’sMillennium

Trilogy

TheGirlwiththeDragonTattoo

TheGirlWhoPlayedwithFire

TheGirlWhoKickedtheHornets’Nest

AlsobyDavidLagercrantzinEnglish

translation

Non-Fiction

IamZlatanIbrahimović

Fiction

FallofManinWilmslow

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainin2015by

MacLehosePressAnimprintofQuercus

PublishingLtdCarmeliteHouse

50VictoriaEmbankmentLondonEC4Y0DZ

AnHachetteUKcompany

Detsomintedödaross©DavidLagercrantz&MogglidenAB,

firstpublishedbyNorstedts,Sweden,in2015

PublishedbyagreementwithNorstedtsAgency

Englishtranslationcopyright©2015byGeorgeGoulding

Maps©EmilyFaccini

ThemoralrightofDavidLagercrantztobe

identifiedastheauthorofthisworkhasbeen

assertedinaccordancewiththeCopyright,Designsand

PatentsAct,1988

GeorgeGouldingassertshismoralrighttobeidentifiedasthetranslatorofthework

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthispublication

maybereproducedortransmittedinanyform

orbyanymeans,electronicormechanical,

includingphotocopy,recording,orany

informationstorageandretrievalsystem,

withoutpermissioninwritingfromthepublisher

ACIPcataloguerecordforthisbookisavailable

fromtheBritishLibrary

ISBN(HB)9780857059994ISBN(TPB)9780857053503ISBN(E-BOOK)978184866

7778

Thisbookisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,businesses,organizations,placesandeventsare

eithertheproductoftheauthor’simagination

orusedfictitiously.Anyresemblanceto

actualpersons,livingordead,eventsor

localesisentirelycoincidental

10987654321

CONTENTS

CoverTitlePage

ContinuingStiegLarsson’sMillenniumTrilogy

CopyrightMapofStockholm

CharactersintheMillenniumseries

ProloguePartI:TheWatchfulEyePartII:TheLabyrinthsof

MemoryPartIII:Asymmetric

ProblemsMapofStockholm

Archipelago

ALettertomyReaders

AuthorandTranslatorBiographies

Author’sAcknowledgementsAlsoAvailable

LisbethQuotation

CHARACTERSINTHEMILLENNIUMSERIES

LISBETH SALANDER – anexceptionally talentedhacker with tattoos,piercings and a troubledpast.

MIKAEL BLOMKVIST – aninvestigating journalist at

Millennium magazine.Salander helped him toresearchoneofthebiggeststories of his career, aboutthe disappearance ofHarriet Vanger. He laterhelped to clear her ofmurderandvindicateherinalegalbattleoverherrightto determine her ownaffairs.

ALEXANDER ZALACHENKO –

also known asZala, or hisalias Karl Axel Bodin. ARussian spy who defectedto Sweden and wasprotected for years by aspecial groupwithinSäpo.He is Lisbeth Salander’sfather, and used violentlyto abuse her mother,Agneta Salander. He wasalso theheadofacriminalempire.

RONALD NIEDERMANN –Salander’s half-brother, ablond giant impervious topain.Salanderarrangedforhismurder.

CAMILLA SALANDER –Salander’stwinsister,fromwhomsheisestranged.

AGNETASALANDER – SalanderandCamilla’smother,who

died in a nursing home attheageofforty-three.

HOLGER PALMGREN –Salander’s formerguardian,a lawyer.OneofthefewpeoplewhoknowsSalander well and whomshetrusts.

DRAGAN ARMANSKY –Salander’s former, now-occasional, employer, the

head of Milton Security.Another of the few shetrusts.

PETER TELEBORIAN –Salander’s sadistic childpsychiatrist. Chiefprosecution witness inSalander’s incompetencytrial.

IRENE NESSER – a womanwhoseNorwegianpassport

has fallen into Salander’shands, allowing Salandertoassumeheridentity.

HANS-ERIK WENNERSTRÖM – ashadowy magnate whotricks Blomkvist intopublishing anunsubstantiateddefamatoryarticle about his business,landing Blomkvist inprison. Salander uses her

talents to empty his bankaccountsinretribution.

ERIKABERGER–editorinchiefof Millennium magazine,occasional lover ofBlomkvist.

GREGER BECKMAN – ErikaBerger’shusband.

MALIN ERIKSSON – managingeditorofMillennium.

CHRISTERMALM – art directorandpartneratMillennium.

ANNIKA GIANNINI –Blomkvist’s sister, alawyer who representedSalanderinhertrial.

HARRIET VANGER – scion of awealthy industrial family,who disappeared as a girland was found byBlomkvist and Salander at

the behest of her great-uncle,HenrikVanger. Shebecame a shareholder inMillennium.

SVAVELSJÖM.C.–amotorcyclegang closely associatedwithZalachenko.Membersof the gangwere seriouslyinjuredbySalander.

HACKERREPUBLIC–acoalitionof hackers, among whom

Salander,who goes by thehandle“Wasp”, is thestar.Includes Plague, TrinityandBobtheDog.

SÄPO – the Swedish securitypolice, which harboured asecret faction known as“the Section” dedicated toprotectingZalachenko.

JAN BUBLANSKI – detectiveinspector with the

Stockholm police, whoheaded the teaminvestigating the Salandercase. Now promoted tochief inspector. Known as“OfficerBubble”.

SONJAMODIG–apoliceofficerwho works closely withBublanski.

JERKER HOLMBERG – a policeofficerwho,inBublanski’s

eyes, is perhaps the bestcrime scene investigator intheSwedishpoliceforce.

HANS FASTE – a Stockholmpoliceman who clashedwithBublanski and leakedinformation to ProsecutorEkström during theSalanderinvestigation.

RICHARD EKSTRÖM – theprosecutorwhobroughtthe

caseagainstSalander,nowchief prosecutor. Amanipulative and venalman, believed within thepolicetobeinterestedonlyinself-advancement.

PROLOGUE

OneYearEarlier

This story beginswith a dream, and

not a particularlyspectacular one atthat. Just a handbeating rhythmicallyand relentlessly on amattress in a roomonLundagatan.Yet it still gets

Lisbeth Salander outof her bed in theearly light of dawn.Then she sits at her

computer and startsthehunt.

PARTI

THEWATCHFULEYE

1–21.xi

The N.S.A., or NationalSecurity Agency, is a UnitedStates federal authority thatreports to the Department ofDefense.Theheadoffice is inFortMeade,Maryland, by thePatuxentFreeway.Sinceitsfoundationin1952,

theN.S.A.hasbeenengagedin

signals surveillance – thesedaysmostlyinconnectionwithInternet and telephone traffic.Time after time its powershave been increased, and nowit monitors more than twentybillion conversations andmessages every twenty-fourhours.

CHAPTER1

EarlyNovember

Frans Balder always thoughtofhimselfasalousyfather.

Hehadhardlyattemptedtoshoulder the role of fatherbefore and he did not feelcomfortable with the tasknow that his son was eight.But itwas his duty, thatwashow he saw it. The boywashaving a rough time livingwith his ex-wife and herbloody partner, LasseWestman.SoBalderhadgivenuphis

jobinSiliconValley,gotona

plane home and was nowstanding at Arlanda airport,almostinshock,waitingforataxi.Theweatherwashellish.Rain whipped into his faceandforthehundredthtimehewonderedifhewasdoingtherightthing.That he of all self-centred

idiots should become a full-time father, how crazy anidea was that? He might aswellhavegotajobatthezoo.

He knew nothing aboutchildren and notmuch aboutlife in general. The strangestthing of all was nobody hadaskedhimtodoit.Nomotheror grandmother had calledhim,pleadingandtellinghimto face up to hisresponsibilities.Itwashisowndecision.He

wasproposingtodefyalong-standing custody ruling and,without warning, walk into

hisex-wife’splaceandbringhome his boy, August. Nodoubt all hell would breakloose. That bloody LasseWestman would probablygive him a real beating. Buthe put that out of his mindand got into a taxi with awoman driver who wasdementedlychewinggumandat the same time trying tostrike up a conversationwithhim. She would not have

succeededevenononeofhisbetter days. Balder was notoneforsmalltalk.He sat there in the back

seat thinking about his sonand everything that hadhappened recently. Augustwasnottheonly–oreventhemain – reason why he hadstopped working at Solifon.His life was in turmoil andforamomenthewonderedifhe really knew what he was

getting himself into. As thetaxi came into the Vasastanneighbourhooditfeltas ifallthe blood was draining fromhis body. But there was noturningbacknow.He paid the taxi on

Torsgatan and took out hisluggage, leavingit just insidethe building’s front entrance.The only thing he took withhim up the stairs was anemptysuitcasecoveredwitha

brightly colouredmap of theworld, which he had boughtat San FranciscoInternational. He stoodoutside the apartment door,panting.Withhiseyesclosedhe imagined all the possiblescenarios of fighting andscreaming, and actually, hethought, you could hardlyblame them. Nobody justturnsupandsnatchesachildfrom his home, least of all a

father whose only previousinvolvement has consisted ofdepositingmoneyintoabankaccount. But this was anemergency, so he steeledhimselfandrangthedoorbell,fighting off the urge to runaway.At first there was no

answer. Then the door flewopenandtherewasWestmanwith his piercing blue eyesand massive chest and

enormous fists. He seemedbuilt to hurt people, whichwas why he so often got toplay the bad guy on screen,even if none of his roles –Balderwasconvincedof this–wasasevilasthepersonheplayedinreallife.“Christ,” Westman said.

“Look what we have here.Thegeniushimselfhascometovisit.”

“I’mheretofetchAugust,”Baldersaid.“Youwhat?”“I’m taking him with me,

Lasse.”“Youmustbejoking.”“I’ve never been more

serious,” he tried, and thenHannaappearedfromaroomacross to the left. True, shewas not as beautiful as shehad once been. There hadbeen too much unhappiness

for that and probably toomanycigarettesandtoomuchdrinkaswell.Butstillhefeltan unexpected wave ofaffection, especiallywhen henoticedabruiseonherthroat.She seemed to want to saysomething welcoming, evenunder the circumstances, butshe never had time to openhermouth.“Why should you care all

ofasudden?”Westmansaid.

“BecauseAugust has beenthrough enough. He needs astablehome.”“And you think that you

can provide that, you freak?Since when have you doneanything except stare at acomputerscreen?”“I’ve changed,” he said,

feeling pathetic, in partbecause he doubted that hehadchangedonelittlebit.

A shiver ran through himas Westman came towardshimwithhismightybulkandhis pent-up rage. It wascrushingly clear that hewould have no means ofresistance if thatmadman letfly.Thewholeideahadbeeninsanefromthestart.But thestrange thing was that therewas no outburst, no scene,justagrimsmileandthenthewords, “Well, isn’t that just

great!”“Whatdoyoumean?”“That it’s about time, isn’t

it,Hanna?Finallysomesenseof responsibility from MrBusy. Bravo, bravo!”Westman clapped his handstheatrically. Afterwards thatiswhatBalderfoundthemostfrightening–howeasilytheylettheboygo.Perhaps they saw August

onlyasaburden.Itwashard

to tell. Hanna shot Baldersome glances which weredifficulttoreadandherhandsshook and her jaw wasclenched. But she asked toofew questions. She shouldreally have been cross-examining him, makingthousands of demands,warning him and worryingthat the boy’s routine wouldbeupset.Butallshesaidwas:

“Are you sure about this?Willyoumanage?”“I’m sure,” he said. Then

they went to August’s room.Balder had not seen him formore than a year and he feltashamed.Howcouldhehaveabandoned such a boy? Hewas so beautiful andstrangely wonderful with hiscurly, bushyhair and slenderbody and serious blue eyes,engrossedinagiganticjigsaw

puzzle of a sailing boat. Hisbody seemed to cry out“Don’t disturb me!” andBalder walked up to himslowly, as if approaching anunknown and unpredictablecreature.Henonethelessmanagedto

gettheboytotakeholdofhishandandfollowhimout intothe corridor.Hewouldneverforget it. What was Augustthinking? What did he

imagine was happening? Heneither looked up at him norathismotherandofcourseheignored all the waving andthewordsoffarewell.Hejustvanished into the lift withBalder.Itwasassimplethat.

August was autistic. He wasmost likely also mentallydisabled, even though theyhadnot receivedunequivocal

advice on that point andanyone who saw him fromafar might easily suspect theopposite. His exquisite faceradiated an air of majesticdetachment, or at leastsuggested that he did notthink itworth botheringwithhis surroundings. But whenyou looked at him closelythere was somethingimpenetrableinhisgaze.And

he had yet to say his firstword.Inthishehadfailedtolive

up to all theprognosesmadewhen he was two years old.At the time, the doctors hadsaid that August probablybelonged to that minority ofautistic children who had nolearningimpairment,andthatprovided he was givenintensivebehavioural therapyhis prospects were quite

good.Butnothinghadturnedout as they had hoped andBalder had no ideawhat hadbecome of all that remedialcare and assistance or eventhe boy’s schooling. Balderhad run away to the U.S.A.andlivedinhisownworld.He had been a fool. But

now he was going to repayhis debt and take care of hisson. Right away he orderedup casebooks and called

specialists and educationalexpertsandonethingbecameimmediately apparent: noneof the money he had beensending had gone towardsAugust’scare,butinsteadhadtrickled out to pay for otherthings, probably Westman’sextravagances and gamblingdebts. The boy seemed tohavebeenleftprettymuchtohis own devices, allowed tobecomesetinhiscompulsive

ways, and probably worse –thiswas also the reasonwhyFranshadcomehome.A psychologist had called

to express concern aboutunexplained bruises coveringAugust’sarmsandlegs,chestand shoulders. According toHanna theywerebecause theboyhad fitsandhurthimselfthrashing back and forth.Balderwitnessedonealreadyon the second day, and it

scared him out of his wits.Butthatcouldnotaccountforthesheernumberandtypeofbruises,hethought.He suspected violence and

turnedforhelptoaG.P.andaformer policeman whom heknew privately. Even if theywere not able to confirm hisfears with any degree ofcertainty he grew more andmore angry and set aboutsubmitting a series of formal

lettersandreports.Healmostforgot all about the boy. Herealized that it was easy toforget him. August spentmostofhistimesittingonthefloor in the roomBalder hadmade ready for him in thehouse in Saltsjöbaden, doinghis exceedingly difficultjigsaws,assemblinghundredsof pieces only to break themupandstartafresh.

At first, Balder hadobserved him in fascination.It was like watching a greatartistatwork,andsometimeshe was taken by the fantasythat theboywouldglanceupat any moment and saysomething grown-up. ButAugustneverutteredaword.Ifheraisedhisheadfromthepuzzle itwas to lookstraightpasthimtowardsthewindowoverlooking the sea and the

sunshine reflected in thewater, and eventually Balderjust left him alone. Balderseldomeventookhimoutsideintothegarden.Fromalegalpointofview

hedidnothavecustodyoftheboy and he did not want totakeanychancesuntilhehadsorted this out. So he let thehousekeeper, Lottie Rask, doall theshopping–andall thecookingandcleaning.Balder

was no good at that side ofthings. He understoodcomputersandalgorithmsbutnot much else, and heimmersed himself in themevenmore.At night he sleptas badly as he had inCalifornia.Lawsuits and storms

loomed on the horizon andevery evening he drank abottle of red wine, usuallyAmarone, and probably that

did little good either, exceptintheshortterm.Hebegantofeel worse and worse andfantasized about vanishing ina puff of smoke or takinghimself off to someinhospitable place,somewhere remote.But then,one Saturday in November,somethinghappened.Itwasacold, windy evening and heand August were walkingalong Ringvägen in the

Södermalm district, feelingfrozen.They had been having

dinner at Farah Sharif’s onZinkens väg. August shouldhave been asleep long since,but dinner had gone on lateand Balder had revealed fartoo much. Farah Shariftended to have that effect onpeople. Balder and she hadknown each other since theyread computer sciences at

Imperial College in Londonand now Farah Sharif wasone of the few people at hislevel in Sweden, or at leastone of the few who was byand large able to follow histhinking. Itwasan incrediblerelief for him to meetsomeone who couldunderstand.He also found her

attractive, but despitenumerous attempts he had

nevermanagedtoseduceher.Balderwasnotmuchgoodatseducing women. But thistime he had received afarewell hug that almostturnedintoakiss,whichwasa big step forward. He wasstill thinking about it as heand August passedZinkensdamm sports centre.Maybe next time he shouldget a babysitter and thenperhaps … Who knows? A

dog was barking some wayoffand therewasawoman’svoice shouting behind him,hardtotellifshewasupsetorhappy. He looked overtowards Hornsgatan and thecrossroads where they couldpick up a taxi or take theTunnelbanadowntoSlussen.Itfeltasifitmightrain.Oncethey got to the crossing thelightturnedtoredandontheothersideofthestreetstooda

worn-looking man in hisforties who seemed vaguelyfamiliar. At precisely thatmoment Balder took hold ofAugust’shand.He only wanted to make

sure his son stayed on thepavement, but thenhe felt it:August’shandtensedasiftheboywerereactingstronglytosomething. His look wasintense and clear, as thoughtheveilwhichalwaysseemed

to cover his eyes had beenmagically drawn aside, andinstead of staring inwards athisowncomplexities,Augusthad apparently understoodsomethinguniquelydeepandgreat about that crossing. SoBalder ignored the fact thatthe lights had turned green.Hejustlethissonstandthereand observe the scene, andwithoutknowingwhy,hewasovercome by a strong

emotion, which he foundstrange. It was only a look,after all, and not even anespeciallybrightorjoyfuloneat that. Yet it rang a distantbell, stirred something longdormant in his memory. Forthefirsttimeinanagehefelthopeful.

CHAPTER2

20.xi

Mikael Blomkvist had sleptfor only a few hours, having

stayed up late to read adetective novel by ElizabethGeorge. Not a particularlysensible thing to do. OveLevin, the newspaper gurufrom SernerMedia, was dueto present a strategy sessionfor Millennium magazinelater that morning andBlomkvist ought really to berestedandreadyforcombat.Buthehadnodesire tobe

sensible.Onlyreluctantlydid

he get up and make himselfan unusually strongcappuccino with his JuraImpressa X7, a machinewhich had been delivered tohis home awhile agowith anote saying, “According toyou,Idon’tknowhowtouseit anyway”. It stood there inthe kitchen now like amemorialtoabettertime.Heno longer had any contact

withthepersonwhohadsentit.These days he was hardly

stimulatedbyhiswork.Overthe weekend he had evenconsideredlookingaroundforsomethingnew, and thatwasaprettydrasticideaforamanlike Mikael Blomkvist.Millennium had been hispassion and his life, andmany of his life’s best,mostdramatic eventshadoccurred

in connection with themagazine. But nothing lastsfor ever, perhaps not even aloveforMillennium.Besides,thiswasnotagoodtimetobeowningamagazinededicatedto investigative journalism.All publications withambitions for greatness werebleeding to death, and hecouldnothelpbutreflectthatwhile his own vision forMillennium may have been

beautiful and true on somehigher plane, it would notnecessarilyhelpthemagazinesurvive. He went into thelivingroomsippinghiscoffeeand looked out at the watersof Riddarfjärden. There wasquite a storm blowing outthere.From an Indian summer,

which had kept the city’soutdoor restaurants and cafésopen well into October, the

weather had turned hellishwith gusts of wind andcloudbursts, and peoplehurried through the streetsbent double. Blomkvist hadstayedinallweekend,butnotonly because of the weather.He had been planningrevenge on an ambitiousscale, but the scheme hadcometonothing,andthatwasnot like him, neither theformernorthelatter.

He was not an underdog,andunlikesomanyotherbigmedia figures in Sweden hedidnotsufferfromaninflatedego which needed constantboostingandsoothing.Ontheother hand, he had beenthrough a few tough years.Barely a month ago thefinancial journalist WilliamBorg had written a piece inSerner’s Business Lifemagazine under the heading:

MIKAEL BLOMKVIST’SDAYS ARE OVER.Thefactthatthearticlehad

beenwritteninthefirstplaceand given such prominencewas of course a sign thatBlomkvist’spositionwasstillstrong.No-onewouldsaythatthe column was well writtenororiginal,anditshouldhavebeen easy to dismiss as yetanother attack by a jealouscolleague. But for some

reason, incomprehensible inretrospect, the whole thingblewup.Atfirstitmighthavebeen interpreted as a spiriteddiscussion about journalism,but gradually the debatebegan to go off the rails.Although the serious pressstayed out of it, all kinds ofinvective was being spewedout on social media. Theoffensivecamenotonlyfromfinancial journalists and

industry types, who hadreason to set upon theirenemy now that he wastemporarily weakened, butalso from a number ofyoungerwriterswhotooktheopportunity to make a namefor themselves.They pointedoutthatBlomkvistwasnotonTwitter or Facebook andshould rather be seen as arelic of a bygone age inwhich people could afford to

work their way throughwhichever strange oldvolumes happened to taketheir fancy. And there werethose who took theopportunity to join in thefunand create amusing hashtagslike#inblomkvistsday. Itwasall a lot of nonsense andnobodycouldhavecaredlessthan Blomkvist – or so hepersuadedhimself.

Itcertainlydidnothelphiscause that he had not had amajor story since theZalachenko affair and thatMillennium really was in acrisis. The circulation wasstill O.K., with 21,000subscribers. But sinceadvertising revenue wasfallingdramaticallyand therewasnownolongeradditionalincome from their successfulbooks, and since one of the

shareholders,HarrietVanger,wasnotwillingtoputupanymore capital, the board ofdirectors had, againstBlomkvist’s wishes, allowedthe Norwegian Sernernewspaper empire to buy 30per cent of the shares. Thatwas not as odd as it seemed,or not at first sight. Sernerpublished weekly magazinesand evening papers andowned a large online dating

site and two pay-T.V.channelsaswellasafootballteam in Norway’s topdivision, and it ought not tobehavinganythingtodowithapublicationlikeMillennium.But Serner’s

representatives – especiallythe head of publicationsOveLevin–hadassuredthemthatthe group needed a prestigeproductandthat“everybody”in the management team

admired Millennium andwantedonlyforthemagazineto go on exactly as before.“We’re not here to makemoney!” Levin said. “Wewant to do somethingsignificant.” He immediatelyarranged for themagazine toreceiveasizeableinjectionoffunds.At first Serner did not

interfereontheeditorialside.It was business as usual, but

with a slightly better budget.Anewfeelingofhopespreadamong the editorial team,sometimes even toBlomkvist, who felt that foronce he would have time todevote himself to journalisminstead of worrying aboutfinances.Butthen,aroundthetime the campaign againsthim got under way – hewould never lose thesuspicion that the Serner

Grouphadtakenadvantageofthe situation – the tonechanged and they started toapplypressure.Levin maintained that of

course the magazine shouldcontinue with its in-depthinvestigations, its literaryreporting, its social fervour,allof that stuff.But surely itwas not necessary for all thearticles to be about financialirregularities, injustices and

political scandals. Writingabout high society – aboutcelebrities and premieres –could also produce brilliantjournalism,sohesaid,andhespoke with passion aboutVanity Fair and Esquire inAmerica, about Gay Taleseand his classic piece, “FrankSinatra has a Cold”, andabout Norman Mailer andTruman Capote and Tom

Wolfe and heaven knowswhoelse.Blomkvist did not actually

have any objections to that,not at the time. Six monthsearlierhehadhimselfwrittena long piece about thepaparazzi industry, and aslong as he could find aserious angle then he wascontent to profile just aboutany lightweight. In fact healwayssaiditisn’tthesubject

that determines if it’s goodjournalism, it’s the reporter’sattitude.No,whatheobjectedto was what he sensed wasthere between the lines: thatthis was the beginning of alonger-term assault and that,tothegroup,Millenniumwasjust like any othermagazine,a publication you can damnwell shift around any whichway you want until it

becomes profitable – andcolourless.So on Friday afternoon,

whenheheardthatLevinhadhired a consultant andcommissioned severalconsumer surveys to presenton Monday, Blomkvist hadsimplygonehome.Foralongtimehehadsatathisdeskorlaininbedcomposingvariousimpassioned speeches aboutwhy Millennium had to

remaintruetoitsvision:thereis rioting in the suburbs; anopenly racist party sits inRiksdagen, the parliament;intolerance is growing;fascism is on the rise andtherearehomelesspeopleandbeggars everywhere. In somany ways Sweden hasbecome a shameful nation.Hecameupwith lotsof fineand lofty words and in hisdaydreams he enjoyed a

whole series of fantastictriumphs in which what hesaid was so relevant andcompelling that all of theeditorial team and even theentire Serner Group wereroused from their delusionsanddecided to followhimasone.But when sobriety set in,

he realized how little weightsuch words carry if nobodybelieves in them from a

financial point of view.Money talks, bullshit walks,and all that. First andforemostthemagazinehadtopay itsway.Then theycouldgoaboutchanging theworld.He began towonderwhetherhe could rustle up a goodstory.Theprospectofamajorrevelation might boost theconfidence of the editorialteam and get them all to

forget about Levin’s surveysandforecasts.Blomkvist’s big scoop

about the Swedishgovernment conspiracy thathad protected Zalachenkoturned him into a newsmagnet. Every day hereceived tips aboutirregularities and shadydealings.Mostofit,totellthetruth, was rubbish. But justoccasionallyanamazingstory

would emerge. A run-of-the-mill insurance matter or atrivial report of a missingperson could be concealingsomethingcrucial.Youneverknewforsure.Youhadtobemethodical and look throughitallwithanopenmind,andso on the Saturday morninghe sat down with his laptopandhisnotebooksandpickedhiswaythroughwhathehad.

Hekeptgoinguntil5.00inthe afternoon and he didcome across the odd itemwhich would probably havegot him going ten years ago,but which did not now stirany enthusiasm. It was aclassic problem; he of allpeopleknewthat.Afterafewdecades in the professionmost things feel prettyfamiliar, and even ifsomething looks like a good

story in intellectual terms itstillmightnotturnyouon.Sowhen yet another squall offreezing rain whipped acrossthe rooftops he stoppedworking and turned toElizabethGeorge.Itwasn’t just escapism, he

persuaded himself.Sometimes the best ideasoccurtoyouwhileyourmindis occupied with somethingcompletely different. Pieces

of the puzzle can suddenlyfall into place. But he failedto come up with anythingmore constructive than thethought that he ought tospendmoretimelyingaroundlikethis,readinggoodbooks.WhenMondaymorningcameand with it yet more foulweather he had ploughedthrough one and a halfGeorge novels plus three oldcopies of the New Yorker

whichhadbeenclutteringuphisbedsidetable.

Sotherehewas,sittingontheliving-room sofa with hiscappuccino,lookingoutatthestorm. He had been feelingtired and listless until he gottohisfeetwithanabruptstart– as if he had suddenlydecided to pull himselftogether and do something –

and put on his boots and hiswinter coat and went out. Itwas a parody of hell outthere.Icy, heavy, wet squalls bit

into his bones as he hurrieddown towards Hornsgatan,whichlaybeforehimlookingunusuallygrey.ThewholeofSödermalmdistrictseemedtohave been drained of allcolour. Not even one tinybright autumn leaf flew

throughtheair.Withhisheadbent forward and his armscrossed over his chest hecontinued past MariaMagdalena kyrka to Slussen,all the way until he turnedrightontoGötgatsbackenandas usual he slipped inbetween the Monki boutiqueandtheIndigopub,thenwentup to the magazine on thefourth floor, just above theoffices of Greenpeace. He

could already hear the buzzwhenhewasinthestairwell.An unusual number of

people were up there. Apartfrom the editorial team andthe key freelancers, therewere three people fromSerner, two consultants andLevin,Levinwhohaddresseddownfortheoccasion.Henolonger looked like anexecutive and had picked up

some new expressions,amongothersacheery“Hi”.“Hi,Micke,how’sthings?”“That depends on you,”

Blomkvist said, not actuallymeaningtosoundunfriendly.Buthecouldtellthatitwas

takenas adeclarationofwarandhenoddedstiffly,walkedoninandsatdownononeofthechairswhichhadbeensetout so as to make a smallauditoriumintheoffice.

Levin cleared his throat andlooked nervously inBlomkvist’s direction. Thestarreporter,whohadseemedsocombativeinthedoorway,now looked politelyinterestedandshowednosignofwantingtohavearow.ButthisdidnothingtosetLevin’smind at ease. Once upon atime he and Blomkvist hadboth temped for Expressen.They mostly wrote quick

news stories and a whole lotof rubbish.But afterwards inthe pub they had dreamedabout the big scoops andtalked for hours of how theywouldneverbesatisfiedwiththe conventional or theshallow, but instead wouldalways dig deep. They wereyoung and ambitious andwanted it all, all at once.ThereweretimeswhenLevinmissedthat,notthesalary,of

course,ortheworkinghours,or even the easy life in thebars and the women, but thedreams–hemissedthepowerin them. He sometimeslongedforthatthrobbingurgeto change society andjournalism and to write sothattheworldwouldcometoa standstill and the mightypowers bow down. Even ahotshot like himself

wondered: Where did thedreamsgo?Micke Blomkvist had of

coursemadeeverysingleoneof them come true, not justbecause he had beenresponsible for some of thebigexposésofmoderntimes,but also because he reallywrote with that passion andpower that they hadfantasized about.Never oncehad he bowed to pressure

from the establishment orcompromised his ideals,whereas Levin himself …Well, really he was the onewith the big career, wasn’the?Hewasprobablymakingten times as much asBlomkvistthesedaysandthatgave him an enormousamountofpleasure.Whatusewere Blomkvist’s scoopswhen he couldn’t even buyhimself acountryplacenicer

than that little shack on theisland of Sandhamn? MyGod, what was that hutcompared to a new house inCannes?Nothing!No, itwashe who had chosen the rightpath.Insteadofsloggingitoutin

the daily press, Levin hadtaken a job as media analystat Serner and developed apersonal relationship withHaakon Serner himself, and

thathad changedhis life andmadehimrich.Todayhewasthe most senior journalistresponsibleforawholeseriesof newspaper houses andchannels and he loved it. Heloved the power, the moneyand all thatwentwith it, yethe was not above admittingthat even he sometimesdreamed about that otherstuff, in small doses, ofcourse,butstill.Hewantedto

be regarded as a fine writer,just like Blomkvist, and thatwas probably why he hadpushed sohard for thegrouptobuyastakeinMillennium.Alittlebirdhadtoldhimthatthemagazine was up againstitandthat theeditor-in-chief,Erika Berger, whom he hadalways secretly fancied,wanted to keep on her twolatest recruits, Sofie Melkerand Emil Grandén, and she

would not be able to do sounless they got some freshcapital.Inshort,Levinhadseenan

unexpected opportunity tobuy into one of the mostprestigiousbrandsinSwedishmedia. But Serner’smanagement was notenthusiastic, to put it mildly.On thecontrary,peoplewereheard to mutter thatMillennium was old-

fashionedandhadaleft-wingbiasandatendencytoendupin fights with importantadvertisers and businesspartners. The plan wouldhavecometonothingifLevinhad not argued his case sopassionately. But he hadinsisted.Inabroadercontext,he argued, investing inMillennium represented anegligible amount, whichmight not yield vast profits

but which could give themsomething much greater,namely credibility. Rightnow, after the cutbacks andblood-letting, Serner’sreputation wasn’t exactlytheir prime asset. Taking astakeinMillenniumwouldbeasignthatthegroupdidafterall careabout journalismandfreedom of expression, evenif Serner’s board was notconspicuouslykeenoneither.

Thismuch theywere able tounderstand,andLevingothisacquisition through. For along time it looked like awinning outcome for allparties.Serner got good publicity

andMillenniumkept its staffand was able to concentrateonwhat it didbest: carefullyresearched, well-writtenreportage,withLevinhimselfbeaming like the sun and

eventakingpartinadebateatthe Writers’ Club, where hesaidinhisusualmodestway,“I believe in virtuousenterprise. I have alwaysfought for investigativejournalism.”But then … he did not

wanttothinkaboutit.Atfirsthewasnotreallybotheredbythe campaign againstBlomkvist. Ever since hisformer colleague’s meteoric

rise in the reportingfirmament, Levin hadrejoiced secretly wheneverBlomkvist was sneered at inthemedia.Thistime,though,his joy did not last. Serner’syoung son Thorvald becameaware of the commotion –socialmediamadeabigthingofit–eventhoughhewasnotamanwho took any interestinwhatjournalistshadtosay.Buthedidlikepowerandhe

lovedtointrigue,andherehesaw a chance to score somepoints or simply to give theoldergenerationontheboardagooddrubbing.BeforelonghehadencouragedtheC.E.O.–whountilquiterecentlyhadnot concerned himself withsuch trivial matters – todeclarethatMillenniumcouldnot be given specialtreatment, butwould have toadapttothenewtimeslikeall

of the other products in thegroup.Levin, who had just given

Bergerasolemnpromisethathewould not interfere in theeditorialline,saveperhapsasa“friendandadviser”,allofasudden felt that his handswere tied and he was forcedto play some intricate gamesbehind the scenes. He dideverything he could to getBerger, Malin Eriksson and

Christer Malm at themagazinetobuyintothenewpolicy, which was never infact clearly expressed –something that flares up in apanic rarely is – but whichsomehow entailed makingMillennium younger andmorecommercial.Naturally Levin kept

repeating that there could benoquestionof compromisingthe magazine’s soul and

provocative attitude, even ifhe was not sure what hemeantby that.Heonlyknewthat to keep the directorshappyheneeded togetmoreglamour into the magazineand reduce the number oflengthy investigations intoindustry, since they wereliable to irritate advertisersand make enemies for theboard. But of course he didnottellBergerthis.

He wanted to avoidunnecessary conflict and,standing there in front of theeditorial team, he had takenthe trouble to dress morecasually than usual. He didnot want to provoke anyoneby wearing the shiny suitsandtieswhichhadbecomederigueuratheadoffice.Hehadinstead opted for jeans, awhiteshirtandadark-blueV-necked pullover which was

not even cashmere. His longcurlyhair–whichhadalwaysbeen his rebellious littlegimmick – was tied in aponytail, just like the edgiestjournalists on T.V. But mostimportantofallhekickedoffin the humble tone he hadbeen taught to adopt on hismanagementcourses.“Hello, everybody,” he

said. “What foul weather!I’ve said it many times

before, but I’m happy torepeat it: we at Serner areincredibly proud to beaccompanying you on thisjourney, and for mepersonallyitamountstomoreeven than that. It’s thecommitment to magazineslikeMillenniumwhichmakesmy job meaningful; itreminds me why I went intothis profession in the firstplace. Micke, do you

rememberhowweusedtositin the Opera Bar and dreamabout everything we weregoing to achieve together?And we weren’t exactlyholdingbackonthebooze,haha!”Blomkvist did not look as

if he remembered.ButLevinwasnottobeputoff.“Don’t worry, I’m not

goingtogetallnostalgic,”hesaid, “and there’s no reason

to do so. In those days therewasmuchmoremoneyinourindustry. Just to cover somepiddling little murder in themiddleofnowherewewouldhireahelicopterandbookanentire floor at the poshesthotel, and order champagnefortheafterparty.Youknow,whenIwasabouttogooffonmyfirstoverseas trip IaskedUlf Nilson, foreigncorrespondent at the time,

what the deutschmarkexchangeratewas.‘Ihavenoidea,’ he said, ‘I setmyownexchange rate.’Ha ha! So atthe time we used to pad ourexpenses, do you remember,Micke? Maybe we were atour most creative back then.Inanycase,our jobwas justtoknockoutsomequickcopyand we still managed to sellany number of issues. But alot has changed since then –

we all know that. We nowface cut-throat competitionandit’snoteasythesedaystomake a profit in journalism,not even if you haveSweden’sbesteditorial team,as you do. So I thought weshould talk a little bit todayabout the challenges of thefuture.Not thatI imagineforonemoment that I can teachyou anything. I’m just goingto provide you with some

context fordiscussion.WeatSerner have commissionedsome surveys about yourreadership and the publicperception of Millennium.Someofitmaygiveyouabitof a fright. But instead ofletting it get you down youshould see it as a challenge,andremember,therearesometotally crazy changeshappeningoutthere.”

Levinpausedforamomentand wondered if the term“totally crazy” had been amistake, if he had tried toohard to appear relaxed andyouthful,andwhetherhehadstarted off in too chatty andjocular a vein. As HaakonSerner would say, “It isimpossible to overestimatehow humourless underpaidjournalistscanbe.”Butno,hedecided,I’llfixthis.

I’llgetthemonmyside!

Blomkvist had stoppedlistening more or less at thepoint when Levin explainedthat theyallneededtoreflecton their “digital maturity”,and so he didn’t hear thembeing told that the youngergeneration were not reallyaware of Millennium orMikael Blomkvist.

Unfortunately that wasprecisely the moment atwhichhedecidedhehadhadenough and went out to thecoffee room. So he had noideaeitherthatAronUllman,the Norwegian consultant,quite openly said, “Pathetic.Ishesoscaredthathe’sgoingtobeforgotten?”But in fact nothing could

have worried Blomkvist lessatthatmoment.Hewasangry

that Levin seemed to thinkconsumer surveys might betheir salvation. It was nobloody market analysis thathad created the magazine. Itwas passion and fire.Millenniumhad got towhereit was because they had allput their faith in it, and inwhat felt right and importantwithouttryingtoguesswhichway the wind was blowing.Foratimehejuststoodthere

inthepantry,wonderinghowlong it would take beforeBergercametojoinhim.Theanswerwasabout two

minutes.Hetriedtocalculatehow angry she was by thesoundofherheels.Butwhenshewasstandingnext tohimsheonlygavehimadejectedsmile.“What’s going on?” she

said.

“I just couldn’t bear tolisten.”“Youdorealizethatpeople

feel incrediblyuncomfortablewhenyoubehavelikethat?”“Ido.”“And I assume you also

understandthatSernercandonothing without ouragreement. We still havecontrol.”“Like hell we do. We’re

their hostages, Ricky! Don’t

youget it? Ifwedon’t do asthey say they’ll withdrawtheir support and then we’llbesittingtherewithourarseshangingout,” he said, loudlyand angrily. When Bergerhushed him and shook herhead he added sotto voce,“I’m sorry. I’m being a brat.But I’m going home now. Ineedtothink.”“You’ve begun to work

extremelyshorthours.”

“Well,IreckonI’mowedafairbitofovertime.”“Isupposeyouare.Would

you like company thisevening?”“I don’t know. I honestly

don’t know, Erika,” he said,andthenheleftthemagazineoffices and went out ontoGötgatsbacken.

The storm and the freezingrain lashed against him andhe swore, and for a momentconsidered dashing intoPocketshop to buy yetanother English detectivenovel to escape into. Insteadhe turned into SanktPaulsgatan and as he waspassing the sushi restauranton the right-hand side hismobilerang.HewassurethatitwouldbeBerger.Butitwas

Pernilla, his daughter, whohad certainly chosen theworst possible time to get intouch with a father whoalready felt bad about howlittlehedidforher.“Hello, my darling,” he

said.“What’sthatnoise?”“It’sthestorm,Iexpect.”“O.K.,O.K., I’ll be quick.

I’ve been accepted on the

writing course at BiskopsArnöschool.”“So,nowyouwanttobea

writer,” he said, in a tonewhich was too harsh andalmostsarcastic,andthatwasunfairineveryway.He should have simply

congratulatedher andwishedherluck,butPernillahadhadso many difficult yearshopping between oneChristian sect and another,

and from one course toanother without finishinganything, that he feltexhausted by yet anotherchangeofdirection.“I don’t think I detected a

whoopofjoythere.”“Sorry, Pernilla. I’m not

myselftoday.”“Whenareyouever?”“I’mjustnotsurewritingis

such a good idea, given howtheprofessionislookingright

now. Ionlywantyou to findsomething that will reallyworkforyou.”“I’m not going to write

boringjournalismlikeyou.”“Well,what are yougoing

towritethen?”“I’m going to write for

real.”“O.K.,” he said, without

asking what she meant bythat. “Do you have enoughmoney?”

“I’m working part-time atWayne’sCoffee.”“Would you like to come

to dinner tonight, so we cantalkaboutit?”“Don’thavetime,Pappa.It

wasjusttoletyouknow,”shesaid,andhungup,andevenifhe tried to see the positiveside in her enthusiasm it justmade his mood worse. Hetook a short cut acrossMariatorget and Hornsgatan

to reach his apartment onBellmansgatan.Itfeltasifhehadonlyjust

left. He got a strange sensethat he no longer had a joband thathewason thevergeof entering a new existencewhere he had oceans of timeinsteadofworkinghisfingersto the bone. For a briefmoment he consideredtidying the place up. Therewere magazines and books

and clothes everywhere. ButinsteadhefetchedtwoPilsnerUrquell from the fridge andsat down on the sofa in theliving room to thinkeverything through moresoberly,assoberlyasonecanwith a bit of beer in one’sbody.Whatwashetodo?He had no idea, and most

worrying of all was that hewas in no mood for a fight.

On the contrary, he wasstrangely resigned, as ifMillenniumwereslippingoutofhissphereofinterest.Isn’tit timetodosomethingnew?he asked himself, and hethoughtofKajsaÅkerstam,aquite charming personwhomhe would occasionally meetfor a few drinks. Åkerstamwas head of SwedishTelevision’s “InvestigativeTaskforce” programme and

shehadbeentryingtorecruithim for years. It had nevermattered what she hadoffered, and how solemnlyshe had guaranteed backingand total integrity.Millennium had been hishome and his soul. But now…maybe he should take thechance. Perhaps a job on“Investigative Taskforce”wouldfirehimupagain.

His mobile rang and for amoment he was happy.Whether it was Berger orPernilla,hepromisedhimselfhe would be friendly andreally listen.Butno, itwasawithheld number and heansweredguardedly.“Is that Mikael

Blomkvist?” said a young-soundingvoice.“Yes,”hesaid.

“Do you have time totalk?”“Imight if you introduced

yourself.”“My name is Linus

Brandell.”“O.K., Linus, how can I

help?”“Ihaveastoryforyou.”“Tellme.”“I will if you can drag

yourselfdowntotheBishops

Arms across the street andmeetmethere.”Blomkvist was irritated. It

wasn’t just the bossy tone. Itwastheintrusiononhishometurf.“Thetelephonewilldojust

fine.”“It’s not something which

should be discussed on anopenline.”“Why do I feel so tired

whenItalktoyou,Linus?”

“Maybe you’ve had a badday.”“I have had a bad day.

You’rerightaboutthat.”“There you go. Come

down to the Bishop and I’llbuy you a beer and tell yousomethingamazing.”Blomkvist wanted only to

snap: “Stop telling me whatto do!”Yetwithout knowingwhy, or perhaps because hedidn’thaveanythingbetterto

do than to sit in his atticapartmentandbroodoverhisfuturehe said, “Ipay formyown beers. But O.K., I’mcoming.”“Awisedecision.”“But,Linus…”“Yes?”“If you get long-winded

and give me a load of wildconspiracy theories to theeffect that Elvis is alive andyou know who shot Olof

Palme, then I’m comingstraighthome.”“Fair enough,” Brandell

said.

CHAPTER3

20.xi

Edwin Needham – Ed theNed, as he was sometimes

called – was not the mosthighly paid securitytechnicianintheU.S.,buthemay have been the best. Hegrew up in South Boston,Dorchester,andhisfatherhadbeenamonumentalgood-for-nothing,adrunkwhotookoncasual work in the harbourbut often disappeared onbingeswhichnotinfrequentlylanded him in jail or inhospital. Yet these benders

werethefamily’sbesttime,asortofbreathingspace.WhenEd’sfathercouldbebotheredto be around he would beathis mother black and blue.Sometimes she would spendhours or even whole dayslocked inside the toilet,crying and shaking. Nobodywas very surprisedwhen shediedfrominternalbleedingatonly forty-six, or when Ed’solder sister became a crack

addict, still less when theremains of the family stoodteetering on the brink ofhomelessness soonafterwards.Ed’s childhood paved the

wayfora lifeof trouble,andduring his teenage years hebelonged to a gang whocalled themselves “TheFuckers”. They were theterror of Dorchester, andengaged in gang warfare,

assault and robbing grocerystores. There was somethingbrutal about Ed’s appearancefrom an early age and thiswasnot improvedbythefactthatheneversmiledandwasmissing two upper teeth. Hewas sturdy, tall and fearless,and his face usually bore thetraces of brawls with hisfatherorgangfights.Mostofthe teachers at his schoolwere scared to death of him.

All were convinced that hewouldendupinjailorwithabullet in his head. But therewere some adultswho begantotakeaninterestinhim–nodoubt because theydiscovered that there wasmore than aggression andviolence in his intense blueeyes.Ed had an irrepressible

thirst for knowledge, anenergy which meant that he

coulddevourabookwiththesame vigour with which hecould trash the inside of apublic bus. Often he wasreluctant to go home at theend of the school day. Heliked to stay on inwhatwasknown as the technologyroom, where there were acouple of computers. Hewould sit there for hours. Aphysics teacher with theSwedish-sounding name of

Larson noticed how good hewaswithmachines, andaftersocial services got involvedhewasawardedascholarshipand transferred to a schoolwith more motivatedstudents.He began to excel at his

studies and was given morescholarships and distinctionsand eventually – somethingof a miracle in view of theodds against him – he went

on to study ElectricalEngineering and ComputerScience at M.I.T. In hisdoctoral thesis he exploredsome specific fears aroundnew asymmetriccryptosystems like R.S.A.,andhethenwentontoseniorpositions at Microsoft andCisco before being recruitedby the National SecurityAgency at Fort Meade inMaryland.

He did not have the idealC.V.forthejob,evenleavingaside his criminal behaviourasateenager.Hehadsmokeda lot of grass at college andflirted with socialist or evenanarchistideals,andhadbeenarrested twice for assault –nothingmajor,justbarfights.Hestillhadavolcanictemperand everyonewho knewhimthought better of crossinghim.

But at the N.S.A. theyrecognizedhisotherqualities.Besides which it was theautumn of 2001. TheAmerican security serviceswere so desperate forcomputer technicians thatthey hired pretty muchanybody.During the ensuingyears nobody questionedNeedham’s loyalty – orpatriotism, for that matter –and if anyone thought to do

so, his advantages alwaysoutweighedhisshortcomings.Needham was not just

amazingly gifted. There wasan obsessive streak to hischaracter, a manic precisionand a furious efficiencywhich boded well for a manin charge of building I.T.security at America’s mosthighly classified agency.Nobodywasdamnwellgoingto crack his system. Itwas a

matter of personal pride forhim. At Fort Meade hequickly made himselfindispensable, to the pointwherepeoplewereconstantlyliningup toconsulthim.Nota few were terrified of himand he was often verballyabusive.Hehadeventoldthehead of the N.S.A. himself,the legendary AdmiralCharles O’Connor, to go tohell.

“Use your own busyfucking head for things youmight just be able tocomprehend,” Needham hadroared when the admiralattempted tocommentonhiswork.But O’Connor and

everyone else let it happen.They knew that Needhamscreamed and yelled for theright reasons – becausecolleagues had been careless

about security regulations, orbecause they were talkingabout things beyond theirunderstanding. Not once didhe interfere in the rest of theagency’s work, even thoughhis level of clearance gavehim access to pretty mucheverything, and even thoughinrecentyearstheagencyhadfound itselfat thecentreofaheated storm of opinionwithadvocates of both the right

andtheleftseeingtheN.S.A.as the devil incarnate, asOrwell’s BigBrother.As faras Needham was concerned,the organization could dowhatever the hell it wanted,so long as his securitysystems remained rigorousand intact. And since he didnotyethaveafamilyhemoreorlesslivedattheoffice.Apart from the occasional

drinking session, during

which he sometimes turnedalarmingly sentimental abouthis past, there was nosuggestion that he had evertold outsiders what he wasworking on. In that otherworldheremainedassilentasthe grave and, if everquestioned about hisprofession,hestucktoawell-rehearsedcoverstory.It was not by chance, nor

wasittheresultofintrigueor

manipulation, that he hadrisen through the ranks andbecome the N.S.A.’s mostsenior security chief.Needham and his team hadtightened internalsurveillance “so that no newwhistle-blowers can pop upand punch us on the nose”andduringcountlesssleeplessnights created something healternately called “an

unbreakable wall” or “aferociouslittlebloodhound”.“No fuckercanget in,and

no fucker can dig around intherewithoutpermission,”hesaid.Andhewasenormouslyproudofthat.Hehadbeenproud,thatis,

until that disastrous morningin November. The day hadbegun beautiful and clear.Needham, who had put onquite a belly over the years,

camewaddlingoverfromthecoffee machine in hischaracteristic way. Becauseofhisseniorityhecompletelyignored dress codes. He waswearing jeans and a red-checkedlumberjackshirt,notquite buttoned at the waist,and he sighed as he settleddown at his computer. Hewas not feeling great. Hisback and right knee hurt andhe cursed the fact that his

long-time colleague, AlonaCasales, had managed topersuadehimtocomeoutfora run the night before. Sheersadismonherpart.Luckily there was nothing

super-urgent todealwith.Heonly had to send an internalmemo with some newprocedures for those incharge of C.O.S.T., aprogramme for cooperationwiththelargeI.T.companies

– he had even changed thecodenames. But he did notgetfar.Hewasjustbeginningto write, in his usual turgidprose:

<So that no-one will betempted to fall back intoidiotic habits again, butinstead to keep you all onyour toes as good paranoidcyber-agents, I would justlike to point out...>

when he was interrupted byoneofhisalerts.

He was not particularlyworried.Hiswarningsystemswere so sensitive that theyreacted to the slightestdivergenceintheinformationflow. It was going to be ananomaly, a notificationperhaps that someone wastrying toexceed the limitsoftheir authorization, or someminorinterference.As it turned out, he never

hadtimetoinvestigate.Inthe

next moment something souncanny happened that forseveralsecondsherefused tobelieve it. He just sat there,staring at the screen. Yet heknewexactlywhatwasgoingon.AR.A.T.hadgotintotheNSANet intranet. Anywhereelse he would have thought:Those fuckers, I’ll crushthem. But in here, the mosttightly closed and controlledplaceofall,whichheandhis

team had gone over with afine-toothed comb a milliontimes just this last year todetect every minuscule littlevulnerability, here, no, no, itwasimpossible–itcouldnotbehappening.Withoutrealizingithehad

closed his eyes, as if hopingthat it would all vanish solong as he wasn’t watching.But when he looked at thescreen again, the sentencehe

had begun was beingcompleted.His<I would just like

to point out>wascontinuingonits own with the words <thatyou should stop with all the illegalactivity. Actually it’s prettystraightforward. Those who spy onthe people end up themselves beingspied on by the people. There’s afundamental democratic logic to it.>

“Jesus,Jesus,”hemuttered– which was at least a signthat he was beginning to

recover some of hiscomposure.But then the textwent on:

<Chill out, Ed. Why don’t you stick

around for a ride? I’ve got Root>atwhich point he gave a loudcry.Theword“Root”broughtdown his whole world. Forabout a minute, as thecomputer raced through themostconfidentialpartsofthesystemat lightning speed, hegenuinely believed that he

was going to have a heartattack. He was only vaguelyaware that people werebeginning to gather aroundhisdesk.

There was not much of acrowd down at the BishopsArms. The weather was notencouraging people toventure out, not even to thelocal pub. Blomkvist was

nevertheless met by shoutsandlaughter,andbyahoarsevoicebawling:“KalleBlomkvist!”Itcamefromamanwitha

puffy red face, a halo offrizzy hair and a fussymoustache, whom Blomkvisthad seen many times in thearea. He thought his namewas Arne, and Arne wouldturnupatthepubasregularlyas clockwork at 2.00 every

afternoon. Today he hadclearlycomeearlier than thatandsettleddownatatabletothe left of the barwith threedrinkingcompanions.“Mikael Blomkvist,”

Blomkvistcorrectedhimwithasmile.Arne and his friends

laughed as if Blomkvist’sactual name was the biggestjokeofall.

“Got any good scoops?”Arnesaid.“I’m thinking about

blowingwideopenthewholemurky scene at the BishopsArms.”“You reckon Sweden’s

readyforastorylikethat?”“No,probablynot.”In truth Blomkvist quite

liked this crowd, not that heevertalkedtothemmorethanin throw-away lines and

banter.But thesemenwereapart of the local scenewhichmadehimfeelathomeinthearea, and he was not in theleast bit offended when oneof themshotout, “I’veheardthatyou’rewashedup.”Far from upsetting him, it

brought the whole campaignagainsthimdowntothelow,almost farcical levelwhere itbelonged.

“I’ve been washed up forthelastfifteenyears,hellotoyou brother bottle, all goodthings must pass,” he said,quoting thepoetFrödingandlooking around for someonewhomight have had the gallto order a tired journalistdown to the pub. Since hesaw no-one apart from Arneand his gang he went up toAmiratthebar.

Amir was big and fat andjolly, a hard-working fatheroffourwhohadbeenrunningthe pub for some years. Heand Blomkvist had becomegood friends. Not becauseBlomkvist was an especiallyregularcustomer,butbecausethey had helped each otherout in completely differentways; once or twice whenBlomkvist had not had thetime toget to thestate liquor

store and was expectingfemale company, Amir hadsuppliedhimwithacoupleofbottles of red wine, andBlomkvist in turnhadhelpeda friend of Amir’s, who hadno papers, to write letters totheauthorities.“To what do we owe this

honour?”Amirsaid.“I’mmeetingsomeone.”“Anyoneexciting?”

“I don’t think so. How’sSara?”Sara was Amir’s wife and

hadjusthadahipoperation.“Complaining and taking

painkillers.”“Sounds like hard work.

Givehermybest.”“Will do,” Amir said, and

they chatted about this andthat.ButLinusBrandelldidnot

show up and Blomkvist

thought it was probably apractical joke. On the otherhand therewereworse tricksthan to have someone lureyou down to your local pub,so he stayed for fifteenminutes discussing a numberoffinancialandhealth-relatedconcernsbeforeheturnedandwalkedtowardsthedoor,andthat was when Brandellappeared.

Nobody understood howGabriellaGranehadendedupat Säpo, Swedish SecurityPolice,leastofallsheherself.She had been the sort of girlfor whom everybody hadpredicted a glittering future.Her old girlfriends from theclassy suburb of Djursholmworried that she was thirty-three and neither famous norwealthynormarried,eitherto

a richman or to anyman atallforthatmatter.“What’s happened to you,

Gabriella? Are you going tobe a police officer all yourlife?”Mostofthetimeshecould

not be bothered to argueback, or point out that shewas not a police officer buthadbeenhead-huntedfor theposition of analyst, and thatthesedaysshewaswritingfar

more challenging texts thanshe ever had at the ForeignMinistry or during hersummers as a leader writerforSvenskaDagbladet.Apartfrom which, she was notallowedtotalkaboutmostofitinanycase.Soshemightaswell keep quiet and simplycome to terms with the factthatworking for theSwedishSecurity Police wasconsideredtobeaboutaslow

as you can go – both by herstatus-obsessed friends andeven more so by herintellectualpals.In their eyes, Säpowere a

bunchofclumsyright-leaningidiots who went after Kurdsand Arabs for what werefundamentally racist reasons,andwhohadnoqualmsaboutcommitting serious crimes orinfringements of civil rightsin order to protect former

senior Soviet spies. Andindeedsometimesshewasontheir side. There wasincompetence in theorganization, and values thatwere unsound, and theZalachenkoaffair remainedamajor blot. But that was notthe whole truth. Stimulatingand important work wasbeingdoneaswell,especiallynow after the shake-out, andsometimes she had the

impression that it was atSäpo, not in any editorial orlecture hall, that people bestunderstoodtheupheavalsthatwere taking place across theworld. But of course sheoftenaskedherself:HowdidIenduphere, andwhyhave Istayed?Presumablysomeofitwas

down to flattery. No less apersonthanHelenaKraft,thenewly appointed chief of

Säpo at the time, hadcontacted her and said thatafterall thedisastersandbadpresstheyhadtorethinktheirapproach to recruitment. Weneed to “bring on board thereal talents from theuniversities and, quitehonestlyGabriella,there’snobetter person than you,” andthatwasallithadtaken.Grane was hired as an

analyst in counter-espionage

and later in the IndustryProtection Group. Eventhough as a young woman,attractive in a slightly propersort ofway, she got called a“daddy’s girl” and “snottyupper-class bitch”, shewas astar recruit, quick andreceptive and able to thinkoutside the box. And shecouldspeakRussian.Shehadlearned it alongside herstudies at the Stockholm

School of Economics, whereneedless to say she had beenamodelstudentbutneverthatkeen. She dreamed ofsomething bigger than a lifein business, so after hergraduation she applied for ajob at the Foreign Ministryand of course was accepted.But she did not find thatespeciallystimulatingeither–the diplomats were too stiffand neatly combed. It was

then that Helena Kraft hadgot in touch.Granehadbeenat Säpo for five years nowand had gradually beenaccepted for the talent thatshe was, even if it was notalwayseasy.It had been a trying day,

and not just because of theghastlyweather.Theheadofdivision, Ragnar Olofsson,had appeared in her officelookingsurlyandhumourless

and told her that she shoulddamn well not be flirtingwhen she was out on anassignment.“Flirting?”“Flowers have been

delivered.”“Andthat’smyfault?”“Yes,Idothinkyouhavea

responsibility there. Whenwe’reoutinthefieldwehaveto show discipline andreserve at all times. We

represent an absolutely keypublicagency.”“Well, that’sgreat,Ragnar

dear. One always learnssomething from you. Now Ifinally understand that I’mresponsible for the fact thatthe head of research atEricsson can’t tell thedifference between normalpolite behaviour and flirting.Now I realize that I shouldblame myself when men

indulge in such wildlywishfulthinkingthattheyseeasexualinvitationinasimplesmile.”“Don’t be stupid,”

Olofsson said, and hedisappeared. Later sheregretted having answeredback.Thatkindofoutburstrarely

does any good. On the otherhand,shehadbeentakingshitforfartoolong.Itwastimeto

stand up for herself. Shequickly tidied her desk andgot out a report fromG.C.H.Q. in Britain aboutRussian industrial espionageagainst European softwarecompanies,whichshehadnotyethadtimetoread.Thenthetelephone rang. It was Kraft,and that made Grane happy.She had never yet called tocomplain or moan. On thecontrary.

“I’ll get straight to thepoint,”Kraftsaid.“I’vehadacallfromtheU.S.,itmaybeabitofanemergency.CanyoutakeitonyourCisco?We’vearrangedasecureline.”“Ofcourse.”“Good. I’d like you to

interpret the information forme,seeif there’sanythinginit. It sounds serious, but Ican’t get a handle on theperson who’s passing on the

information – who, by theway, says that she knowsyou.”“Putmethrough.”ItwasAlonaCasalesatthe

N.S.A. – although for amomentGranewonderedifitreally was her. When theyhad lastmet, at a conferenceinWashington D.C., Casaleshad been a self-assured andcharismatic lecturer in whatshe somewhat

euphemistically described asactive-signals surveillance –hacking, in other words.Afterwards she and Granehad gone out for drinks, andalmostagainstherwill,Granehad been enchanted. Casalessmoked cigarillos and had adarkandsensuousvoicewell-suited to her punchy one-liners and frequent sexualallusions. But now on thetelephone she sounded

confused and sometimesunaccountably lost the threadofwhatshewassaying.

Blomkvist did not reallyknow what to expect, afashionable young man,presumably, some cool dude.But the fellow who hadarrived looked like a tramp,shortandwith torn jeansandlong,dark,unwashedhairand

somethingslightlysleepyandshifty in his eyes. He wasmaybe twenty-five, perhapsyounger, had bad skin and afringe which concealed hiseyesanda ratheruglymouthsore. Linus Brandell did notlook like someone who wassittingonamajorscoop.“Linus Brandell, I

presume.”“That’s right. Sorry I’m

late.Happenedtobumpintoa

girl I knew.We were in thesameclassinninthgrade,andshe—”“Let’s get this over with,”

Blomkvist interrupted him,and led the way to a tabletowardsthebackofthepub.When Amir appeared,

smiling discreetly, theyorderedtwopintsofGuinnessandthensatquietlyforafewseconds.Blomkvistcouldnotunderstand why he felt so

irritated. Itwas not like him;perhapsthewholedramawithSerner was getting to himafter all. He smiled towardsArne and his gang, all ofwhom were studying themkeenly.“I’ll come straight to the

point,”Brandellsaid.“Thatsoundsgood.”“Do you know

Supercraft?”

Blomkvist did not knowmuchaboutcomputergames.But even he had heard ofSupercraft.“Byname,yes.”“Nomorethanthat?”“No.”“In that case you won’t

know that what makes thisgame different, or at least sospecial, is that it has aparticular A.I. function thatallows you to communicate

with a player about warstrategy without being reallysure, at least to begin with,whetherit’sarealpersonoradigital creation that you’retalkingto.”“You don’t say,”

Blomkvist said. He couldn’tcare less about the finerpoints of a damn computergame.“It’s aminor revolution in

the industry and I was

actually involved indevelopingit,”Brandellsaid.“Congratulations. In that

case you must have made akilling.”“That’sjustit.”“Meaningwhat?”“The technology was

stolen from us and nowTruegames are makingbillionswhilewe don’t get asingleöre.”

Blomkvist had heard thisline before. He had evenspoken to an old lady whoclaimed that it was actuallyshe who had written theHarry Potter books and thatJ.K. Rowling had stoleneverythingbytelepathy.“Sohowdidithappen?”he

said.“Wewerehacked.”“Howdoyouknowthat?”

“It’s been established byexperts at the NationalDefenceRadioEstablishment–Icangiveyouanamethereif you want – and also by a…”Brandellhesitated.“Yes?”“Nothing. But even the

SecurityPolicewereinvolved– you can talk to GabriellaGrane there.She’sananalystandIthinkshe’llbackmeup.

She has also mentioned theincident in a public reportpublishedlastyear.Ihavethereferencenumberhere…”“In other words, this isn’t

news,”Blomkvistinterrupted.“No,notinthatsense.New

Technology and ComputerSweden wrote about it. Butsince Frans didn’t want totalk about it andon a coupleofoccasionsevendeniedthatthere had been any breach at

all,thestoryneverwentveryfar.”“Butit’sstilloldnews.”“Isupposeso.”“So why should I be

listeningtoyou,Linus?”“BecausenowFransseems

to have understood whathappened. I thinkhe’s sittingon pure dynamite. He’sbecome completely manicabout security. Only useshyper-encryption for his

phones and email and he’sjust got a new burglar alarmwithcamerasandsensorsandall that crap. I think youshould talk to him – that’swhy Igot in touchwithyou.A guy like you can perhapsget him to open up. Hedoesn’tlistentome.”“So you order me down

here because it seems as ifsomeonecalledFransmaybesittingonsomedynamite.”

“Not someone calledFrans, Blomkvist, it’s noneother than Frans Balder;didn’tIsaythat?Iwasoneofhisassistants.”Blomkvist searched his

memory: the only Balder hecould think of was HannaBalder, the actress, whatevermighthavebecomeofher.“Who’she?”hesaid.Thelookhegotwassofull

ofcontemptthathewastaken

aback.“Where’ve you been

living?Mars?FransBalderisalegend.Ahouseholdname.”“Really?”“Christ, yes!” Brandell

said. “Googlehimandyou’llsee.Hebecameaprofessorofcomputer sciences at justtwenty-seven and for twodecades he’s been a leadingauthority on research inartificial intelligence.There’s

hardly anyone who’s as faradvanced in the developmentof quantum computing andneural networks. He has anamazinglycool,back-to-frontbrain. Thinks alongcompletely unorthodox,ground-breakinglines,andasyoucanprobablyimaginethecomputer industry’s beenchasinghimforyears.ButforalongtimeBalderrefusedtolet himself be recruited. He

wanted to work alone. Well,not altogether alone – he’salways had assistants whomhe’s driven into the ground.He wants results, and he’salways saying: ‘Nothing isimpossible.Ourjobistopushback the frontiers, blah blahblah.’ But people listen tohim. They’ll do anything forhim.They’lljustaboutdieforhim. To us nerds he is GodAlmighty.”

“Icanhearthat.”“But don’t think that I’m

somestar-struckadmirer,notat all. There’s a price to bepaid, I know that better thananyone. You can do greatthingswithhim.Butyoucanalsogotopieces.Balderisn’tevenallowedtolookafterhisown son. He messed up insome unforgivable way.There are a lot of differentstories, assistants who’ve hit

the wall and wrecked theirlives and God knows what.But although he’s alwaysbeen obsessive he’s neverbehaved like this before. Ijust know he’s ontosomethingbig.”“Youjustknowthat.”“You’vegottounderstand,

he’s not normally a paranoidperson. Quite the opposite –he’s never been anywherenear paranoid enough, given

the level of the things he’sbeen dealing with. But nowhe’s locked himself into hishouse and hardly goes out.Heseemsafraidandnormallyhereallydoesn’tdoscared.”“And he was working on

computergames?”Blomkvistsaid, without hiding hisscepticism.“Well … since he knew

that we were all gamingfreaks he probably thought

thatweshouldgettoworkonsomething thatwe liked.Buthis A.I. program was alsorightfor thatbusiness.Itwasa perfect testing environmentand we got fantastic results.Webrokenewground.Itwasjustthat—”“Gettothepoint,Linus.”“The thing is that Frans

and his lawyers wrote apatent application for themost innovative parts of the

technology, and that’s whenthe first shock came. ARussian engineer atTruegames had throwntogether an application justbefore, which blocked ourpatent, and that can hardlyhavebeenacoincidence.Butthat didn’t reallymatter. Thepatentwasonlyapapertiger.The interesting thing washow the hell they hadmanaged to find out about

whatwe’dbeendoing.Sincewewerealldevoted toFranseven to the point of death,there was actually only onepossibility: we must havebeen hacked, in spite of alloursecuritymeasures.”“Is that when you got in

touchwiththeSecurityPoliceand the National DefenceRadioEstablishment?”“Not at first.Balder is not

tookeenonpeoplewhowear

ties and work from nine tofive. He prefers obsessiveidiots who are glued to theircomputers all night long, soinstead he got in touch withsome weirdo hacker he hadmet somewhere and she saidstraightawaythatwe’dhadabreach. Not that she seemedparticularly credible. Iwouldn’t have hired her, ifyou see what I mean, andperhaps she was just talking

drivel. But her mainconclusions werenevertheless subsequentlyborne out by people at theN.D.R.E.”“Butno-oneknewwhohad

hackedyou?”“No, no, trying to trace

hacker breaches is often acomplete waste of time. Butthey must have beenprofessionals.Wehaddonea

lot of work on our I.T.security.”“Andnowyoususpectthat

Balder may have found outsomethingmoreaboutit?”“Definitely. Otherwise he

wouldn’t be behaving sostrangely. I’m convinced hegot wind of something atSolifon.”“Isthatwhereheworked?”“Yes, oddly enough. As I

told you before, Balder had

previously refused to lethimselfbe tiedupby thebigcomputer giants. No-one haseverbangedonasmuchashedid about being an outsider,abouttheimportanceofbeingindependent and not being aslave to commercial forces.But out of the blue, as westood there with our trousersdown and our technologystolen, he suddenly took upan offer from Solifon, of all

companies,andnobodycouldunderstandit.O.K.,theywereoffering a mega-salary, freereinandallofthatcrap:like,do whatever the hell youwant, but work for us, andthatprobablysoundedcool.Itwould definitely have beencool for anyone who wasn’tFrans Balder. But he’d hadanynumberofofferslikethatfrom Google, Apple and allthe others. Why was this

suddenly so interesting? Heneverexplained.Hejust tookhis clobber and disappeared,and from what I’ve heard itwent swimmingly at first.Balder continued to developourtechnologyandIthinktheowner, Nicolas Grant, wasbeginning to fantasize aboutrevenues in billions. Therewas great excitement. Butthensomethinghappened.”

“Something that you don’tactually know so muchabout.”“No, we lost contact.

Balder lost contact withpretty much everyone. But Iunderstand enough to knowthat it must have beensomething serious. He hadalways preached opennessand enthused about theWisdom of Crowds, all thatstuff:theimportanceofusing

the knowledge of many, thewholeLinuxwayofthinking.But at Solifon he apparentlykept every comma secret,even from those who wereclosest to him, and then –wham bam – he gave noticeandwenthome,andnowhe’ssitting there in his house inSaltsjöbaden and doesn’tevengooutintothegardenorgiveadamnhowhelooks.”

“So what you’ve got,Linus, is a story about aprofessor who seems to beunder pressure and whodoesn’t care what he lookslike – though it’s not clearhow the neighbours can seethat, if he never goesoutside?”“Yes,butIthink—”“Listen, this could be an

interesting story, I get that.But unfortunately it isn’t for

me. I’mno I.T. reporter– assomeone sowiselywrote theotherday,I’macaveman.I’drecommend you contactRaoul Sigvardsson at theSvenska Morgon-Posten. Heknows everything about thatworld.”“No, no, Sigvardsson is a

lightweight. This is wayabovehishead.”“I think you underestimate

him.”

“Come on now, don’tchicken out. This could beyourcomeback,Blomkvist.”Blomkvist made a tired

gesture towards Amir, whowas wiping a table not farfromthem.“Can I give you some

advice?”Blomkvistsaid.“What…?Yes…sure.”“Next time you have a

story to sell, don’t try toexplaintothereporterwhat’s

in it for him. Do you knowhowmany timespeoplehaveplayedme that tune?‘This isgoing to be the biggest thingin your career. Bigger thanWatergate!’ You’d do betterwith just some basic matter-of-factinformation,Linus.”“Ijustmeant…”“Yes, what actually did

youmean?”“That you should talk to

him. I think he would like

you. You’re the sameuncompromising kind ofguy.”It was as if Brandell had

suddenly lost his self-confidence and Blomkvistwondered if he had not beenunnecessarily tough. As ageneral principle, he tendedto be friendly andencouraging towards peoplewho gave him tip-offs,howeverweird theysounded,

not just because there mightbe a good story even insomething that soundedcrazy, but also because herecognized that often he wastheir last straw. There weremany who turned to himwhen everyone else hadstoppedlistening.Hewasthelasthope,andtherewasneveranyexcusetobescornful.“Listen,”hesaid.“I’vehad

a really bad day and I didn’t

meantosoundsarcastic.”“That’sO.K.”“And you know,”

Blomkvist said, “there isactually one thing whichinterestsme about this story.Yousaidyouhadavisitfromafemalehacker.”

AlonaCasaleswasnotonetobecome nervous easily andsherarelyhadtroublestaying

ontopic.Shewasforty-eight,tall and outspoken, with avoluptuous figure and smallintelligent eyes which couldmake anybody feel insecure.She often seemed to seestraight through people anddid not suffer from a surfeitofdeferencetosuperiors.Shewouldgiveanyoneadressingdown, even the AttorneyGeneral if he came calling.That was one of the reasons

why Ed the Ned got on sowell with her. Neither ofthem attached muchimportance to status; all theycaredaboutwasability.Nevertheless, she had

completely lost it with thehead of Sweden’s SecurityPolice. This had absolutelynothing to do with HelenaKraft, it was because of thedramaunfolding in theopen-plan office behind her.

Admittedlytheywereallusedto Needham’s explosions ofrage. But something told herright away that what wasgoing on now was on analtogetherdifferentscale.The man seemed

paralysed. While Casales satthere blurting some confusedwords down the line, peoplegathered around him, and allof them, without exception,looked scared. But perhaps

becauseshewas ina stateofshock, Casales did not hangupor say that shewouldcallback later. She let herself beput through to GabriellaGrane, that charming younganalyst whom she had metand tried to seduce inWashington. Even thoughCasaleshadnotsucceeded intaking her to bed, she hadbeen leftwith a deep feelingofpleasure.

“Hello,mydear,”shesaid.“Howareyou?”“Not so bad,” Grane

answered. “We’re havingsome terrible storms, butotherwiseeverything’sfine”“I really enjoyed that last

timewesaweachother.”“Absolutely, it was nice. I

was hungover the whole ofthe next day. But I don’tsupposeyou’recalling toaskmeout.”

“Unfortunately not. I’mcallingbecausewe’vepickedupsignsofaseriousthreattoaSwedishscientist.”“Who?”“For a long time we had

trouble understanding theinformation,orevenworkingout which country itconcerned. Thecommunication wasencrypted and used onlyvague codenames, but still,

using a few small pieces ofthe puzzle we managed …whatthehell…?”“What?”“Onesecond…!”Casales’ computer screen

blinked,thenwentblank,andas far as she could see thesamethingwashappeningallover the office floor. For amoment she wondered whatto do, but carried on theconversation; itmight justbe

a power outage, after all,although the overhead lightsseemedtobeworking.“I’m still here,” Grane

said.“Thanks, I appreciate it.

Sorry about this. It’scomplete chaos here. WherewasI?”“You were talking about

piecesofthepuzzle.”“Right, yes, we put two

and two together, because

there’s always one personwho’s careless, howeverprofessionaltheytrytobe,orwho…”“Yes?”“Um … talks, gives an

address or something, in thiscaseitwasmorelike…”Casales fell silent again.

None other thanCommanderJonny Ingram, one of themost senior people in theN.S.A.with contacts highup

in the White House, hadcome onto the office floor.Ingram was trying to appearas composed as usual. Heeven cracked some joke to agroup sitting further away.But he was not foolinganyone.Beneathhispolishedand tanned exterior – eversince his time as head of thecryptological centre onOahuhe was suntanned all yearround – you could sense

something nervous in hisexpression, and now heseemed to want everybody’sattention.“Hello,areyoustillthere?”

Grane said on the other endoftheline.“I’mgoingtohavetoleave

you unfortunately. I’ll callyou back,” Casales said, andhungup.Atthatmomentshebecameveryworriedindeed.

Therewas a feeling in theairthatsomethingterriblehadhappened, maybe anothermajor terrorist attack. ButIngram carried on with hissoothingactand,eventhoughtherewas sweatonhisupperlip and forehead, he keptrepeating that it was nothingserious. Most likely a virus,he said, which had found itsway into the intranet, despiteallthesecurityprecautions.

“To be on the safe side,we’ve shut down ourservers,” he said, and for amomenthereallydidmanageto calm things down. “Whatthehell,”peopleseemedtobesaying. “A virus isn’t such abigdeal.”But then Ingram started

spouting such vaguestatements thatCasales couldnot stop herself fromshouting:

“Tell us what’s actuallyhappening!”“Wedon’tknowthatmuch

yet.But it’spossible thatoursystems have been hacked.We’llgetbacktoyouassoonas we know more,” Ingramsaid, looking concerned, anda murmur ran through theroom.“Is it the Iranians again?”

somebodywondered.“Wethink…”Ingramsaid.

He got no further. EdNeedham, the one whoshould have been standingthere in the first place,explaining what washappening, interrupted himbrusquelyandgot tohisfeet,a bear of a man, and at thatmomenttherewasnodenyingthat he was an imposingsight. Gone was the deflatedEd from aminute before; he

now exuded a tremendoussenseofdetermination.“No,” he hissed. “It’s a

hacker, a fucking super-hacker, and I’m going to cuthisballsoff.”

“The female hacker doesn’treally have anything to dowith this story,” Brandellsaid, nursing his beer. “She

was probably more likeBalder’ssocialproject.”“But she seemed to know

herstuff.”“Orshewasjustlucky.She

talkedalotofrubbish.”“Soyoumether?”“Yes,justafterBaldertook

offforSiliconValley.”“Howlongagowasthat?”“Almostayear. I’dmoved

our computers into myapartment onBrantingsgatan.

My lifewasnotgreat, toputit mildly. I was single andbroke and hung over, myplace looked like hell. I hadjust spoken to Balder on thetelephone, and he’d beengoingonlikesomeboringolddad.Therewasalotof:don’tjudge her by how she looks,appearancescanbedeceptive,blah blah and hey, he saidthat to me! I’m not exactlythe ideal son-in-law myself.

I’ve neverworn a jacket andtie in my entire life, and ifanyone knows what peoplelook like in the hackercommunity, then I do.Whatever, so I was sittingthere waiting for this girl.Thought that she would atleast knock. But she justopened the door and walkedin.”“Whatdidshelooklike?”

“Bloodyawful…butthen,shewas also sexy in aweirdway.Butdreadful!”“Linus,I’mnotaskingyou

to rate her looks. I justwantto know what she waswearing and if she maybementioned what her namewas.”“I have no idea who she

was,” Brandell said,“althoughIdidrecognizeherfrom somewhere – I had the

feeling that itwas somethingbad. She was tattooed andpierced and all that crap andlookedlikeaheavyrockerorgothorpunk,plusshewasasthinashell.”Hardly aware that he was

doing it, Blomkvist gesturedto Amir to pull him anotherGuinness.“Whathappened?”hesaid.“Well, what can I say? I

guessIthoughtthatwedidn’t

havetogetgoingrightaway,so I sat down on my bed –therewasn’tmuch else to siton – and suggested that wemight have a drink orsomething first. But do youknowwhatshedidthen?Sheasked me to leave. Sheordered me out of my ownhome,asifthatwasthemostnatural thing in the world,andobviouslyIrefused.Iwaslike:‘Idoactuallylivehere.’

But she said, ‘Piss off, getlost,’ and I didn’t see whatchoiceIhadsoIwasoutforawhile. When I got back shewas lying there on my bed,smoking, how sick is that?And reading a book aboutstring theory or something,and maybe I gave her somesortofdodgylook,whatdoIknow. She just said that shewasn’t planning on havingsexwithme,notevenalittle.

‘Not even a little,’ she said,and I don’t think she lookedmeintheeyeevenonce.Shejustannouncedthatwe’dhada Trojan, a R.A.T., and thatshe recognized the pattern inthe breach, the level oforiginality in theprogramming. ‘You’ve beenblown,’ she said. And thenshewalkedout.”“Without saying

goodbye?”

“Without a single damnwordofgoodbye.”“Christ.”“But to be honest I think

shewas justbullshitting.TheguyattheN.D.R.E.,whodidthesameinvestigationalittlewhilelater,andwhoprobablyknewmuchmoreaboutthesekinds of attacks, was veryclear that you couldn’t drawanyconclusionslikethat,andthat however much he

searched through ourcomputer he couldn’t findanyoldspyware.Butstillhisguess was – Molde was hisname, by the way, StefanMolde – that we’d beenhacked.”“Thiswoman,didsheever

introduce herself in anyway?”“I did actually press her,

but all she would say, andpretty surly shewas too,was

that I could call her Pippi. Itwas obvious that that wasn’therrealname,butstill…”“Stillwhat?”“Ithoughtthatitsuitedher

somehow.”“You know,” Blomkvist

said,“Iwasjustabouttoheadhomeagain.”“Yes,Inoticedthat.”“But now everything’s

changed in a pretty majorway.Didn’tyousaythatyour

Professor Balder knew thiswoman?”“Well,yes.”“InthatcaseIwant to talk

tohimassoonaspossible.”“Becauseofthewoman?”“Somethinglikethat.”“O.K., fine,”Brandell said

thoughtfully. “But youwon’tfind any contact details forhim.He’s become so bloodysecretive, like I said.DoyouhaveaniPhone?”

“Ido.”“Inthatcaseyoucanforget

it. Frans sees Apple asmoreor less in the pocket of theN.S.A. To talk to him you’llhave tobuyaBlackphoneorat least borrow an Androidand download a specialencryption program. But I’llsee to it thathegets in touchwithyou, soyoucanarrangeto meet in some secureplace.”

“Great,Linus.Thanks.”

CHAPTER4

20.xi

Granehadjustputonhercoatto go home when Casales

called again, and at first shewas irritated, not onlybecause of the confusion lasttime.Shewantedtogetgoingbefore the storm got out ofhand. The news on the radiohad forecast winds of up tothirty metres per second andthe temperature falling to-10°C, and she was notdressedforit.“I’msorryittookawhile,”

Casales said. “We’ve had an

insanemorning.Totalchaos.”“Here too,” Grane said

politely, but looking at herwatch.“But I do have something

important to tell you, as Isaid, at least I think I do. Itisn’t that easy to analyse. Ijust started checking out agroup of Russians, did Imentionthat?”Casalessaid.“No.”

“Well, there are probablyGermans and AmericansinvolvedaswellandpossiblyoneormoreSwedes.”“Whatsortofgrouparewe

talkingabout?”“Criminals, sophisticated

criminals who don’t robbanksorselldrugsanymore.Instead they steal corporatesecrets and confidentialbusinessinformation.”“Blackhats.”

“They’re not just hackers.They also blackmail andbribe people. Possibly theyeven carry out old-fashionedcrimes, like murder. I don’thavemuchonthemyet,tobehonest, mostly codenamesand unconfirmed links, andthen a couple of real names,some young computerengineers in junior positions.The group is active insuspected industrial

espionageand that’swhy thecase has ended up on mydesk. We’re afraid thatcutting-edge Americantechnology has fallen intoRussianhands.”“Iunderstand.”“But it isn’t easy to get at

them. They’re good atencryption and, no matterhowhardItry,Ihaven’tbeenable to get any closer towhoever leads them than to

catch that their boss goes bythenameofThanos.”“Thanos?”“Yes, derived from

Thanatos,thegodofdeathinGreek mythology, the onewho’sthesonofNyx–night–andtwinbrothertoHypnos–sleep.”“Real cloak-and-dagger

stuff.”“Actually, it’s pretty

childish. Thanos is a

supervillain in MarvelComics,youknowthatserieswith heroes like the Hulk,Iron Man and CaptainAmerica. First of all it’s notparticularly Russian, butmore than that it’s … howshallIputit…?”“Both playful and

arrogant?”“Yes, like a bunch of

cocky college kids messingaround,andthatreallyannoys

me.Infactthere’sawholelotthat worries me about thisstory,andthat’swhyIgotsoworked up when we learnedthrough our signalssurveillance that someone inthe network may havedefected, somebody whocould maybe give us someinsight–ifonlywecouldgetour hands on this guy beforethey do. But now thatwe’velookedmorecarefullyat this,

we realize it wasn’t at allwhatwethought.”“Meaningwhat?”“The guywho quit wasn’t

some criminal, but theopposite, an honest guywhoresigned from a companywhere this organization hasmoles, someone whopresumably happened tostumble on some keyinformation…”“Keepgoing.”

“Inourviewthisperson isnow seriously under threat.Heneedsprotection,butuntilrecently we had no ideawhere to look for him. Wedidn’t even know whichcompanyhe’dworkedat.Butnow we think we’ve zeroedin,” Casales said. “You see,in the last few days one ofthese characters mentionedsomething about this guy,said that ‘with him all the

bloody Ts went up insmoke’.”“ThebloodyTs?”“Yes, cryptic and strange,

but it had the advantage ofbeing specific and highlysearchable. While ‘bloodyTs’ didn’t give us anything,Ts generally, wordsbeginning with T inconjunction with companies,high-tech firms of course,kept leading us to the same

place – toNicolasGrant andhismaxim:Tolerance,TalentandTeamwork.”“We’re talking Solifon

here,right?”Granesaid.“We think so. At least it

feltlikeeverythinghadfalleninto place, so we began toinvestigate who had leftSolifon recently. Thecompany always has such ahigh staff turnover, it’sactually part of their

philosophy – that talentshould flow in and out. Butthen we started to thinkspecifically about those Ts.Areyoufamiliarwiththem?”“Only what you’ve told

me.”“They’reGrant’srecipefor

creativity. By tolerance hemeans that you need to beopen to unconventional ideasand unconventional people.Talent – it doesn’t just

achieve results, it attractsothergiftedpeopleandhelpscreate an environment thatpeoplewanttobein.Andallthese talents have to form ateam.AsI’msureyouknow,Solifon’s been a remarkablesuccess story, producingpioneering technology in awhole series of fields. Butthen this new genius poppedup, a Swede, and with him…”

“…all thebloodyTswentupinsmoke.”“Exactly.”“AnditwasFransBalder.”“Exactly.Idon’tthinkhe’d

normally had any problemwith tolerance, or withteamworkforthatmatter.Butfromthebeginningtherewasapparently something toxicabout him. He refused toshare anything, and in notime at all he managed to

destroytherapportamongtheelite researchers at thecompany,especiallywhenhestarted accusing people ofbeing thieves and copycats.There was a scene with theowner too. But Grant hasrefused to telluswhat itwasabout – just that it wassomethingprivate.Soonafter,Baldergavenotice.”“Iknow.”

“Most people wereprobably relieved when hetook off. The air at workbecameeasiertobreathe,andpeople began to trust eachother again, at least up to apoint. But Grant wasn’thappy, andmore importantlyhis lawyers weren’t happyeither.Balder had takenwithhim whatever he had beendeveloping at Solifon, andtherewas a rumour –maybe

because no-one really knewwhat itwas– thathewasonto something sensational thatcould revolutionize thequantum computer, whichSolifonwasworkingon.”“And from a purely legal

point of view,whatever he’dproduced belonged to thecompany and not to himpersonally.”“Correct. So even though

Balder had been going on

abouttheft,whenallwassaidand done he himselfwas thethief.Anydaynowthingsarelikely toblowup incourt,asyou know, unless Baldermanages to use whatever hehas to frighten the lawyers.That information is his lifeinsurance,hesays,anditmaywellbetrue.Butintheworst-casescenarioitcouldalsobe…”“…thedeathofhim.”

“That’s what I’m afraidof,” Casales said. “We’repicking up strongerindications that somethingserious is getting underway,and your boss tells me thatyoumight be able to helpuswiththepuzzle.”Grane looked at the storm

thatwas now raging outside,and longed desperately to gohome and get away from allthis.Yetshetookoffhercoat

and sat down again, feelingdeeplyuneasy.“HowcanIhelp?”“What do you think he

foundout?”“Do I take that to mean

that you haven’t managedeither to bug him or hackhim?”“I’m not going to answer

that one, sweetheart. Butwhatdoyouthink?”

Grane remembered howFransBalderhadstoodinthedoorway of her office not solong ago andmuttered aboutdreaming of “a new kind oflife”–whateverhemayhavemeantbythat.“Perhaps you know,” she

said, “that I met him beforehejoinedSolifon,becauseheclaimed thathis researchhadbeenstolenfromhim.Ididn’ttaketohimmuch.Thenwhen

he came back there was talkin-houseofgettinghimsomeform of protection, so I methim a couple of times more.His transformation over thelast few weeks was actuallyincredible. Not only becausehe had shaved off his beard,tidied up his hair and lostsome weight. He was alsomellower, even a little bitunsureofhimself.Icouldtellthathewasrattled,andatone

point he did say that hethought there were peoplewhowantedtoharmhim.”“Inwhatway?”“Not actually physically,

he said. It was more hisresearch and his reputationthey were after. But I’m notso sure that, deep down, hebelieved it would stop there,so I suggested that he get aguard dog. I thought a dogwould be excellent company

foramanwholivedoutinthesuburbsinfartoobigahouse.Buthewouldn’thearof it. ‘Ican’t have a dog now,’ hesaidrathersharply.”“Why’s that, do you

think?”“Ireallydon’tknow.ButI

got thefeeling that therewassomething weighing on him,and he didn’t protest toomuch when I arranged for asophisticatedalarmsystemin

his house. It’s just beeninstalled.”“Bywhom?”“Acompanyweoftenuse,

MiltonSecurity.”“Good. But my

recommendation is to movehimtoasafehouse.”“Isitthatbad?”“Wethinktheriskisreal.”“O.K.,”Granesaid.“Ifyou

send over somedocumentation I’ll have a

word with my superior rightaway.”“I’llseewhatIcando,but

I’m not sure what I can getmy hands on. We’ve beenhaving … some computerissues.”“Can an agency like yours

reallyaffordtohavethatsortofthing?”“No, you’re right. Let me

getback toyou, sweetheart,”shesaid,andhungup.Grane

remained quite still andlooked out at the stormlashing against the windowwithincreasingfury.Then she picked up her

Blackphone and rangBalder.She let it ring and ring. Notjusttowarnhimandseetoitthathemovetoasafeplaceatonce, but also because shesuddenly wanted to knowwhat he had meant when hesaid: “These past few days

I’ve been dreaming about anewkindoflife.”No-one would have

believed that at that momentBalder was fully occupiedwithhisson.

Blomkvist remained sittingforawhileafterBrandellhadleft, drinking his Guinnessand staring out at the storm.Behind him, Arne and his

gang were laughing atsomething. But Blomkvistwas so engrossed in histhoughts that he heardnothing, and hardly evennoticed that Amir had satdown next to him and wasgivinghim the latestweatherforecast.The temperature was

already down to -10°C. Thefirst snow of the year wasexpected to fall, and not in

any pleasant or picturesqueway.Themiserywasgoingtocome blasting in sideways inthe worst storm the countryhadseenforalongtime.“Could get hurricane-force

winds,” Amir said, andBlomkvist, who still was notlistening, just said, “That’sgood.”“Good?”“Yes…well…betterthan

noweatheratall.”

“I suppose. But are youalright?You look shakenup.Wasn’titausefulmeeting?”“Sure,itwasfine.”“Butwhat you got to hear

rattledyou,didn’tit?”“I’m not certain. Things

arejustamessrightnow.I’mthinking of quittingMillennium.”“I thought you basically

werethatmagazine.”

“I thought so too. But Iguess there’s an end toeverything.”“That’s probably true,”

Amirsaid.“Myoldmanusedto say that there’s even anendtoeternity.”“What did he mean by

that?”“I think he was talking

aboutloveeverlasting.Itwasshortly before he left mymother.”

Blomkvist chuckled. “Ihaven’t been so good ateverlasting love myself. Ontheotherhand…”“Yes,Mikael?”“There’sawomanIusedto

know–she’sbeenoutofmylifeforsometimenow.”“Tricky.”“Well, yes, it is. But now

I’ve had a sign of life fromher, or at least I think I did,

andperhapsthat’swhat’sgotmelookingabitfunny.”“Right.”“I’d better get myself

home.WhatdoIoweyou?”“We can settle up another

time.”“Great, take care, Amir,”

he said. He walked past theregulars, who threw a fewrandom comments at him,andsteppedintothestorm.

It was a near-deathexperience. Gusts of windblew straight through hisbody,but inspiteof themhestoodstill forawhile, lost inold memories. He thoughtabout a dragon tattoo on askinnypaleback,acoldsnaponHedebyIslandinthemidstof a decades-old missing-person case and a dug-upgraveinGossebergathatwasnearly the resting place of a

woman who refused to giveup. Then he walked homeslowly. For some reason hehad trouble getting the dooropen, had to jiggle the keyaround. He kicked off hisshoesandsatathiscomputerand searched for informationonFransBalder,Professor.But he was alarmingly

unfocused and instead foundhimselfwondering,ashehadsomany times before:where

hadshedisappearedto?Apartfrom some news from herone-time employer, DraganArmansky,hehadnotheardaword about her. It was as ifshehadvanishedoff thefaceof the earth and, althoughtheylivedinmoreorlessthesame part of town, he hadnever caught a glimpse ofher.Of course, the personwho

had turned up at Brandell’s

apartmentthatdaycouldhavebeen someone else. It waspossible, but not likely.Whoother than Salander wouldcomestompinginlikethat?ItmusthavebeenSalander,andPippi…thatwastypical.The name by her doorbell

on Fiskargatan was V. KULLAand he could well see whyshedidnotuseherrealname.Itwas all too searchable andassociated with one of the

most high-profile trials thecountry had ever seen.Admittedly, it was not thefirsttimethatthewomanhadvanished in a puff of smoke.Buteversince thatdaywhenhe had knocked on her dooronLundagatanandgivenherhell for having written apersonal investigation reportabout him which was muchtoo thorough, they had neverbeen apart for so long and it

felt a little strange, didn’t it?Afterall,Salanderwashis…well,whatthehellwasshe,inpointoffact?Hardlyhisfriend.Onesees

one’s friends. Friends don’tdisappear like that. Friendsdon’t only get in touch byhacking into your computer.YethestillfeltthisbondwithSalander and, above all, heworried about her. Her oldguardian Holger Palmgren

used to say that LisbethSalander would always getby. Despite her appallingchildhood, ormaybe becauseof it, she was one hell of asurvivor, and there wasprobablyalotoftruthinthat.But one could never be sure,not with a woman of such abackground, and with thatknack for making enemies.Perhapsshereallyhadlostit,as Armansky had hinted

when he and Blomkvist metoverlunchatGondolenaboutsix months ago. It was aspring day, a Saturday, andArmanskyhadofferedtobuybeerandsnapsandalltherestof it. Even though theywereostensiblymeetingastwooldfriends, there was no doubtthat Armansky only wantedto talk about Salander and,withthehelpofafewdrinks,

indulge in a spot ofsentimentality.Among other things,

Armansky told Blomkvistthat his company, MiltonSecurity, had supplied anumberofpersonalalarmstoanursinghome inHögdalen.Goodequipment,hesaid.But not even the best

equipment in the world willhelp you if the electricitygoes off and nobody can be

bothered to fix it, and that isprecisely what happened.Therewas apoweroutage atthe home late one evening,andinthecourseofthatnightone of the residents, a ladycalledRutÅkerman, fell andbroke her femur, and she laythere for hour after hourpressing the button on heralarm to no avail. By themorningshewas inacriticalcondition and, since the

papers were just thenfocusing heavily onnegligence in care for theelderly, the whole thingbecameabigdeal.Happily, the old lady

pulled through. But she alsohappenedtobethemotherofaseniorfigureintheSwedishDemocrats party. When itemerged on the party’swebsite, Unpixelated, thatArmansky was an Arab –

whichincidentallyhewasnotat all, although it was truethat he was occasionallycalled “the Arab” in jest –therewasanexplosionintheposted comments. Hundredsof anonymous writers saidthat’s what happens “whenyou let coons supply yourtechnology” and Armanskytook it verybadly, especiallywhenthetrollingaffectedhisfamily.

Butthensuddenly,asifbymagic,allthosepostswerenolonger anonymous. Youcould see the names andaddresses of thoseresponsible, their job titlesandhowoldtheywere.Itwasbeautifully neat – as if theyhad all filled in a form.Youcould say that the entire sitehad been unpixelated, and ofcourse it became clear thatthe posts did not just come

fromcrackpots,butalsofrommany established citizens,even some of Armansky’scompetitors in the securitybusiness, and for a long timethe hitherto-anonymousperpetrators were completelypowerless. They could notunderstand what hadhappened. Eventuallysomeone managed to closethe site down. But nobodyhadany ideawho laybehind

theattack–exceptforDraganArmanskyhimself.“It was classic Salander,”

hesaid.“Youknow,Ihadn’theard from her for ages andwas convinced that shecouldn’t give a damn aboutme, or anybody else for thatmatter. But then thishappened, and it wasfantastic. She had stood upfor me. I sent an effusivethanks by email, and to my

surprise an answer cameback.Doyouknowwhatshewrote?”“No.”“Just one single sentence:

‘Howthehellcanyouprotectthat creep Sandvall at theÖstermalmclinic?’”“Andwho’sSandvall?”“A plastic surgeon to

whom we gave personalprotection because he’d beenthreatened. He’d pawed a

young Estonian woman onwhom he had performedbreast surgery and shehappened to be the girlfriendofaknowncriminal.”“Oops.”“Precisely. Not such a

cleverthingtodo.IansweredSalander to say that I didn’tthink Sandvall was one ofGod’s little angels any morethan she did. But I pointedout that we don’t have the

right to make that kind ofjudgement. Even malechauvinistpigsareentitledtosome degree of security.Since Sandvall was underserious threat and asked forourhelp,wegaveit tohim–atdoubletheusualrate.”“But Salander didn’t buy

yourargument?”“Well,shedidn’treply–at

least not by email. But Isuppose you could say she

gave a different sort ofanswer.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“She marched up to our

guards at the clinic andordered them tokeepcalm. Ithinksheevengavethemmyregards. Then she walkedstraight past all the patientsandnurses anddoctors,wentinto Sandvall’s office andbroke three of his fingers.Then she made the most

terrifying threats againsthim.”“Jesus!”“That’s putting it mildly.

Starkstaringmad. Imean, todo something like that infront of so many witnesses,and in a doctor’s office toboot.Andofcoursetherewasahugefussafterwards–alotof brouhaha about lawsuitsand prosecutions and thewhole damn thing. You can

just imagine: breaking thefingers of a surgeon who’slineduptoperformastringoflucrative nips and tucks …It’sthekindofthingthatgetstop lawyers seeing dollarsignseverywhere.”“Whathappened?”“Nothing. It all came to

nothing, apparently becausethe surgeon himself didn’twant to take things anyfurther. But still, Mikael, it

was insane. No person intheirrightmindsteamsintoatop surgeon’s office in broaddaylight and breaks hisfingers.NotevenSalander.”Blomkvistactually thought

that it soundedpretty logical,according to Salander logic,that is, a subject inwhichhewas more or less expert. Hedidnotdoubt forone secondthat that doctor had done farworse than grope the wrong

girlfriend. But even so hecould not help wondering ifSalander hadn’t screwed upin this case, if only on thescoreofriskanalysis.Itoccurred tohim that she

mighthavewantedtogetintotrouble again, maybe to putsomespicebackintoherlife.But thatwasprobablyunfair.He knew nothing of hermotivesorhercurrentlife.Asthe storm rattled the

windowpanesandhesattherein front of his computerGoogling Frans Balder, hetriedtoseebeautyin thefactthat they had now bumpedintoeachotherinthisindirectway. It would seem thatSalander was the same asever and perhaps – whoknows?–shehadgivenhimastory. Linus Brandell hadirritated him from the wordgo. But when Salander

droppedintothestory,hesawit all with new eyes. If shehad taken the time to helpFransBalderthenhecouldatleast take a closer look at it,andwithsomeluckfindoutabitmoreaboutSalanderatthesametime.Why had she got herself

involvedinthefirstplace?She was not just some

itinerant I.T. consultant afterall.Yes, she could fly into a

rageoverlife’sinjustices,butfor a woman who had noqualms about hacking to getindignant about a computerbreach, that was a little bitsurprising. Breaking thefingers of a plastic surgeon,fine! But hackers? That wasvery much like throwingstonesinglasshouses.There must be some

backstory. Maybe she andBalder knew each other. It

wasnotinconceivableandsohetriedGooglingtheirnamestogether, but without gettinganyhits,atleastnonethathadanyrelevance.He focused on Frans

Balder.Theprofessor’snamegeneratedtwomillionhitsbutmost of them were scientificarticles and commentaries. Itdid not seem as if Baldergave interviews, and becauseof that, there was a sort of

mythologicalglossoverallofthe details of his life – as ifthey had been romanticizedbyadmiringstudents.Apparently it had been

assumed that Balder wasmore or less mentallydisabled as a child until oneday he walked into theheadmaster’s office at hisschool on Ekerö island andpointed out a mistake in theninth-grademathsbooktodo

with so-called imaginarynumbers. The mistake wascorrected in subsequenteditions and the followingspringBalderwon a nationalmathematics competition. Hewasreportedasbeingabletospeak backwards and createhisownlongpalindromes. Inan early school essay whichwaslaterpublishedonthenethe took a critical view ofH.G.Wells’novelTheWarof

the Worlds on the groundsthat he could not understandhow beings superior to us ineverywaycouldfail tograspsomething so basic as thedifferences between thebacterialfloraonMarsandonEarth.After graduating from

secondary school he studiedcomputersciencesatImperialCollege in London anddefended his thesis on

algorithms in neuralnetworks, which wasconsidered revolutionary. Hebecame the youngest everprofessor at the RoyalInstitute of Technology inStockholmandwaselectedtothe Royal Swedish Academyof Engineering Sciences.These days he was regardedas a world authority on thehypothetical concept of“technological singularity”,

the state at which computerintelligence will haveovertakenourown.In most photographs he

lookedlikeadishevelledtrollwith small eyes, his hairstanding on end. Yet hemarriedtheglamorousactressHanna Lind. The couple hada son who, according toevening newspaper coverage,under the headlineHANNA’S GREAT

SORROW, was mentallydisabled,eventhoughtheboydid not – at least not in thepicture accompanying thearticle – look in the least bitimpaired. The marriage fellapart and, amidst a heatedcustody battle in Nackadistrict court, the enfantterrible of the theatre, LasseWestman, stepped into thefray to declare aggressivelythat Balder should not be

allowed to look after his sonat all because he caredmoreabout “the intelligence ofcomputers than that ofchildren”. Blomkvistconcentrated his efforts ontrying to understandBalder’sresearch, and for a long timehe sat engrossed in acomplicated text aboutquantum processors incomputers.

Afterwards he went intoDocumentsandopeneda filehe had created a year or soearlier. It was called LISBETHSTUFF. He had no ideawhethershewasstillhackinginto his computer, but hecouldnothelphopingthatshedid and wondered if heshouldnotafteralltypeoutalittlegreeting.Long,personalletterswerenotherthing.Hewould do better to go for

something brisk and a littlebitcryptic.Hewrote:

<What should we make ofFrans Balder’s artificialintelligence?>

CHAPTER5

20.xi

The words blinked onto thecomputerscreen:

<Mission accomplished!>Plague gave a hoarse,

almostderangedyell,andthatmay have been unwise. Buteven if the neighbours hadhappened to hear, they couldnothavedreamedwhatitwasabout.Plague’shomewasnotan obvious setting for high-level international securitycoups.It felt more like a place

where a social welfare case

might hang out. Plague livedon Högklintavägen inSundbyberg, a markedlyunglamorous area with dull,four-storey, faded brickhouses, and the apartmentitselfhadnothingmuchgoingfor it. It had a sour, stalesmell, and his desk wascovered in all sorts ofrubbish, McDonald’scontainers and Coca-Colacans, crumpled-up pages

from notebooks, unwashedcoffee cups and empty sweetpackets. Even though somehad actuallymade it into thewastepaper basket – whichhad not been emptied forweeks – you could hardlytake a step in the roomwithoutgettingcrumbsorgritunder your feet. But none ofthis would have surprisedanyonewhoknewhim.

Plaguewasnotamanwhonormally showered orchangedhisclothesmuch.Hespent his whole life in frontof the computer, even whenhe was not working: a giantof a man and overweight,bloatedandunkempt,withanattempt at an imperial beardthat had long since turnedinto a shapeless thicket. Hisposture was dreadful and hehadahabitofgroaningwhen

he moved. But the man hadothertalents.He was a wizard on the

computer, ahackerwho flewunconstrained throughcyberspaceandwasprobablysecondonly tooneperson inthe field, a woman in thisparticular case. The meresight of his fingers dancingacrossthekeyboardwasajoytobehold.Hewasaslightandnimble on the net as he was

heavy and clumsy in theother, more material world,and as a neighboursomewhere upstairs,presumably Herr Jansson,now banged on the floor, heansweredthemessagehehadreceived:

<Wasp, you bloody genius.They ought to put up astatue to you!>Thenheleanedbackwitha

delighted smile and tried torun through in his mind the

sequenceofevents,savouringthe triumph for a little whilelonger before going on topumpWasp for every detail,and to ensure that she hadcovered her tracks. No-onemust be able to trace them,no-one!Thiswasnot the first time

theyhadbeenmessingwithapowerful organization. Butthiswas on a new level, andmanyinHackerRepublic,the

exclusivefellowshiptowhichshe belonged, had actuallybeen against the idea, Waspherself most of all. Waspcould take on just about anyauthorityorpersonyoucouldcare to name, if it werenecessary. But she did notliketopickafightforitsownsake.She disliked that sort of

childishhackernonsense.Shewasnotsomeonewhohacked

into supercomputers merelyto showoff.Waspwanted tohave a clear objective, andshe always damn wellanalyzed the potentialconsequences. She weighedlong-term risks againstwhatever need was beingsatisfied in the short-term,andfromthatpointofviewitcould not be said it madesensetohackintotheN.S.A.Still,sheletherselfbetalked

into it. Nobody could quiteunderstandwhy.Maybe she was bored and

wantedtostirupalittlechaossoasnottodieoftedium.Orelse, as some in the groupclaimed, she was already inconflict with the N.S.A. andtherefore the breachamounted to little more thanher personal revenge. Butothers in the groupquestioned even that and

maintained she was lookingfor information, that she hadbeen on the hunt forsomething ever since herfather, AlexanderZalachenko, had beenmurdered at SahlgrenskahospitalinGöteborg.Butnobodyknewforsure.

Wasp had always had hersecrets and actually hermotiveswereunimportant,orso they tried to persuade

themselves. If she wasprepared to help then theyshould just accept gratefullyand not worry about the factthat, to begin with, she hadnot shownmuch enthusiasm,orhardlyanyfeelingsatallinfact. At least she was nolonger being awkward aboutit, and that seemed as muchasanyonecouldhopefor.They knew better than

most that the N.S.A. had

outrageously overstepped itsboundaries in recent years.These days the organizationdid not confine itself toeavesdropping on terroristsandpotentialsecurityrisks,oreven just foreign heads ofstate and other powerfulfigures, but listened in oneverything, or nearlyeverything.Millions,billions,trillions of communicationsandactivitiesonthenetwere

spied on and archived, andwith each passing day theN.S.A. went further andfurther and pried deeper anddeeperintoeveryprivatelife,and had become oneimmeasurable, watchful, evileye.It was true that nobody in

HackerRepublic could claimthe moral high ground here.Everysingleoneofthemhadmade their way into parts of

the digital landscape wherethey had no business being.Those were the rules of thegame, so to speak. A hackerwassomeonewhocrossedtheline, for better or for worse,someone who by virtue oftheir occupation broke rulesandbroadenedthefrontiersoftheir knowledge, withoutalwaysbeingconcernedaboutthe distinction betweenprivateandpublic.

But they were not withoutethics and above all theyknew, also from their ownexperience, how powercorrupts, especially powerwithout control. None ofthem liked the thought thattheworst,mostunscrupuloushackingwasnolongercarriedout by solitary rebels oroutlaws, but by statebehemoths who wanted tocontrol their populations.

Plague and Trinity and BobtheDogandFlipperandZodandCatandthewholeHackerRepublic gang had thereforedecided to strike back byhacking the N.S.A. andmessing with them in onewayoranother.Thatwasnosimpletask.It

was a little bit like stealingthegoldfromFortKnox,andlike the arrogant idiots theywere they did not content

themselveswithbreakingintothesystem.Theyalsowantedsuperuserstatus,or“Root”inLinux language, and for thattheyneeded to findunknownvulnerabilities in the system,for what was called a Zero-day attack – first on theN.S.A.’s server platform andthen further into theorganization’s intranet,NSANet, from which theauthority’s signals

surveillance went out acrosstheworld.Theybeganasusualwitha

littlesocialengineering.Theyhad to get holdof thenamesofsystemsadministratorsandinfrastructure analysts whoheld the complex passwordsfor the intranet. It would notdo any harm either if therewas a chance that somecareless oaf was beingnegligent about security

routines.Infact throughtheirown contacts they came upwith four or five names,amongthemaRichardFuller.Fuller worked in the

N.I.S.I.R.T., the N.S.A.InformationSystemsIncidentResponse Team, whichsupervised the intranet, andhe was constantly on thelookout for leaks andinfiltrators. Fuller was adecent sort of fellow – a

Harvard law graduate,Republican, formerquarterback, a dream patriotif one were to believe hisC.V. But through a formerlover Bob the Dog managedto discover that he was alsobipolar, and possibly acocaineaddict.When he got excited he

would do all sorts of stupidthings, such as opening filesand documents without first

putting them in a so-calledsandbox, a required securityprotocol.Furthermorehewasvery handsome, though alittle smarmy, and someone,probably Bob the Doghimself, came up with theidea thatWasp should travelto his home town inBaltimore,gotobedwithhimandcatchhiminahoneytrap.Wasptoldthemalltogoto

hell.

Shealsorejectedtheirnextidea,thattheywouldcompilea document containinginformation which lookedlike dynamite, specificallyabout infiltratorsand leaksathead office in Fort Meade.This would then be infectedwith malware containing anadvanced Trojan with a highlevel of originality whichPlague and Wasp were todevelop.Theplanwas toput

out leads on the net whichwould lure Fuller to the file,andwithabitofluckgethimso worked up that he wouldbecarelesswithsecurity.Nota bad plan at all – it couldtake them into the N.S.A.’scomputer system without anactive breach that might betraceable.Waspsaidthatshewasnot

going to sit around waitingfor that blockhead Fuller to

puthisfoot in it.Shedidnotwant tohave to relyonotherpeople making mistakes andwas being generally contraryand bloody-minded, so no-one was surprised when shesuddenlywantedtotakeoverthe whole operation herself.Even though there was acertain amount of protest, inthe end they all gave in, butnotwithoutissuingaseriesofinstructions. Wasp did

carefully write down thenames and details of thesystems administratorswhichthey had managed to obtain,andshedidaskforhelpwiththe so-called fingerprinting:the mapping of the serverplatform and operatingsystem. But after that sheclosed the door on HackerRepublic and the world, andPlaguehadnoreasontothinkthat shepaidanyattention to

his advice, for example thatsheshouldnotuseherhandle,heralias, and that sheshouldnot work from home butrather from some remotehotelunderafalseidentity,incase the N.S.A.’sbloodhounds managed totrack her down. Needless tosay, she did everything herownwayandallPlaguecoulddo was sit at his desk inSundbyberg and wait, his

nerves in tatters. Which iswhyhestillhadno ideahowshehadgoneaboutit.He knew one thing for

certain: what she hadachieved was legendary, andwhile the storm howledoutsidehepushedasidesomeof the rubbish on his desk,leaned forward and typed onhiscomputer:

<Tell me! How does it feel?>

<Empty>, came theanswer.

Empty.That was how it felt.

Salander had hardly slept foraweekandshehadprobablyalsohadtoolittletodrinkandeat, and now her head achedand her eyes were bloodshotandherhandsshookandwhatshe wanted above all was tosweepallofherequipmentto

the floor. In one sense shewas content, though hardlyfor the reason Plague oranyone else in HackerRepublic would haveguessed. She was contentbecauseshehadbeenable togetsomenewinformationonthe criminal group she wasmapping out; she had foundevidence of a connectionwhich she had previouslyonly suspected. But she kept

that to herself, and she wassurprisedthattheotherscouldhaveimaginedthatshewouldhave hacked the system forthehellofit.She was no hormone-

fuelled teenager, no idiotshow-off looking for a kick.She would only embark onsuch a bold venture becauseshewasaftersomethingveryspecific, although itwas truethatonceuponatimehacking

hadbeenmorethanjustatoolfor her. During the worstmoments of her childhood ithad been her way ofescaping, away tomake lifefeel a little less boxed in.With the help of computersshe could break throughbarriers which had been putin her way and experienceperiods of freedom. Therewas probably an element of

that in the current situationtoo.Firstandforemostshewas

onthehuntandhadbeeneversinceshewokeupinthelightofearlydawnwithherdreamof that fist beatingrhythmically, relentlessly ona mattress on Lundagatan.Her enemies were hidingbehindsmokescreensandthiscould be the reason whySalander had been unusually

difficultandawkwardoflate.It was as if a new darknessemanated from her. Apartfrom a large, loudmouthedboxing coach called Obinzeand two or three lovers ofboth sexes, she saw hardlyanyone. More than ever shelooked like trouble; her hairwas straggly, her eyesthreatening, and even thoughshesometimesmadeaneffort

shehadnotbecomeanymorefluentatsmalltalk.Shespokethetruthorsaid

nothing at all, and as for herapartment here onFiskargatan … that was astory in itself. It was bigenough for a family withseven children, although inthe years since she hadacquired the place nothinghad been done to decorate itor make it homely. There

were only a few pieces ofIkea furniture, placedseeminglyatrandom,andshedid not even have a stereosystem, perhaps because shedidnotunderstandmusic.Shesaw more melody in adifferentialequationthaninapiece by Beethoven. Yet shewas as rich as Croesus. Themoney she had stolen fromthat crook Hans-ErikWennerströmhadgrowntoa

little more than five billionkronor, so she could affordwhatever she wanted. But insome way – which wastypical of her – her fortunehad not made any mark onher personality, unlessperhaps it had made her yetmore fearless. She hadcertainly done someincreasingly drastic things oflate.

She may have crossed aline by wandering intoN.S.A.’sintranet.Butshehadjudged it necessary, and forseveral days and nights shehad been totally absorbed.Now it was over she peeredoutoftired,squintingeyesather two work desks, set atright angles. Her equipmentconsisted of the regularcomputer and the testmachine she had bought, on

which she had installed acopy of N.S.A.’s server andoperatingsystem.She had run her own

fuzzing program, whichsearched for errors and tinyvulnerabilitiesintheplatformagainstthetestcomputer.Shethen followed that up withdebugging and black-boxpenetration testing andvariousbeta test attacks.Theoutcome of all that formed

the basis of her toolkit,including her R.A.T., so shecould not afford to neglect asingle point. She wasscrutinizing the system fromtop to bottom and that waswhyshehad installedacopyoftheserverhereathome.Ifshe had set to work on thereal platform, the N.S.A.technicians would havenoticeditimmediately.

This way she was able towork on without distraction,day after day, and if she didhappentoleavethecomputerthen it was only to doze offfor awhile on the sofa or toputapizzainthemicrowave.Apartfromthatshekeptat ituntilhereyeshurt,especiallywith her Zero-day Exploit,the software which exploitedthe unknown securityvulnerabilities and which

wouldupdateher statusonceshehadactuallygotin.Itwascompletely mind-boggling.Salander had written aprogramwhichnotonlygaveher ownership over thesystem,butalsothepowertocontrol remotely prettymuchanything on an intranet ofwhich she had only patchyknowledge. That was themostextraordinarypart.

She was not just going tobreak in. She was goingfurther, into NSANet, whichwasaself-containeduniversebarely connected to theordinary net. Shemight looklikeateenagerwhohadfailedall of her subjects at school,but give her source codes incomputer programs and alogical context and her brainjust went click, click. Whatshe had created was nothing

less than wholly new andimproved malware, anadvancedTrojanwithalifeofitsown.She found the pay-as-you-

gocard shehadbought fromT-MobileinBerlinandput itinto her telephone. Then sheused it to go onto the net.Maybe she shouldhavebeenfar away in another part ofthe world, dressed up as heralterego,IreneNesser.

IfthesecuritypeopleattheN.S.A. were diligent and ontopof things, they justmightbe able to trace her toTelenor’sbasestationhereintheblock.Theywouldnotgetall the way through, at leastnot with the technology nowavailable,butitwouldstillbeclose and thatwouldbeverybad news. Yet she reckonedtheadvantagesofsittinghereat homeoutweighed the risk,

and she did take all thesecurity precautions shecould. Like so many otherhackers, she used Tor, anetwork by which her trafficbounced about amongthousands and thousands ofusers.ButshealsoknewthatnotevenTorwaswatertight–the N.S.A. used a programcalled EgotisticalGiraffe tocrack the system – so shespent a long time further

improving her own personalsecurity.Onlythendidshegoontheattack.Sheslicedintotheplatform

like a blade through paper,but she could not afford tobecome overconfident as aresult.Now,quickly,shehadto locate the systemsadministrators whose namesshehadbeengivenandinjecther Trojan into one of theirfiles, thereby creating a

bridge between the servernetwork and the intranet,none of which was simple,not by any means. Nowarning bells or anti-virusprogramsmustbeallowed tostart ringing. In the end sheused the identity of a mancalled Tom Breckinridge topenetrate NSANet and then…everymuscle in her bodytensed. Before her eyes, her

overworked, sleepless eyes,themagicunfolded.HerTrojantookherfurther

and further in, into this, themostsecretof thesecret,andshe knew exactly where shewas going. She was on herway toActiveDirectory–orits equivalent – to upgradeherstatus.Shewouldgofromunwelcome little visitor tosuperuser in this teeminguniverse, and only once that

wasdonewouldshetrytogetsome sort ofoverviewof thesystem.Itwasn’teasy.Itwasmore or less impossible, infact, and she did not havemuchtimeeither.She worked fast to get a

griponthesearchsystemandto pick up all the passwordsand expressions andreferences, all the internalgibberish. She was on thepoint of giving up when

finallyshefoundadocumentmarked TOPSECRET,NOFORN–no foreign distribution – notparticularly remarkable initself. But together with acouple of communicationslinks between ZigmundEckerwald at Solifon andcyber-agents at theDepartmentfortheProtectionof Strategic Technologies atthe N.S.A., it turned intodynamite. She smiled and

memorizedevery littledetail.Then she caught sight of yetanother document thatseemed relevant. It wasencrypted and she saw noalternative but to copy it,even if that would set alarmbells ringing at Fort Meade.Shesworeferociously.The situation was

becoming critical. Besides,she had to get on with herofficialassignment,ifofficial

was the right word. She hadsolemnly promised Plagueand the others at HackerRepublic to pull down theN.S.A.’strousers,soshetriedto work out who she shouldbecommunicatingwith.Whowastogethermessage?She settled for Edwin

Needham, Ed the Ned. Hisname invariably came up inconnectionwithI.T.security,andas shequicklypickedup

some information about himon the intranet, she felt agrudging respect. Needhamwas a star. But she hadoutwitted him and for amoment she thought twiceaboutgivingthegameaway.Herattackwouldcreatean

uproar. But an uproar wasexactlywhatshewaslookingfor, so she went ahead. Shehadnoideawhattimeitwas.It could have been night or

day, autumn or spring, andonly vaguely, deep in herconsciousness,wassheawarethat the storm over the citywas building up, as if theweather was synchronizedwith her coup. In distantMaryland,Needhambegantowritehisemail.He didn’t get far, because

in the next second she tookover his sentence and wrote:<that you should stop with all the

illegal activity. Actually it’s prettystraightforward. Those who spy onthe people end up themselves beingspied on by the people. There’s a

fundamental democratic logic to it>,andforamoment it feltas ifthose sentences hit themark.She savoured the hot sweettaste of revenge andafterwards she dragged Edthe Ned along on a journeythrough the system. The twoof themdancedand torepast

a whole flickering world ofthings that were supposed toremainhiddenatallcosts.It was a thrilling

experience, no question, andyet…whenshedisconnectedand all her log files wereautomatically deleted, thencame the hangover. It waslike the aftermath of anorgasm with the wrongpartner, and those sentencesthathadseemedsoabsolutely

rightafewsecondsagobegantosoundincreasinglychildishand more and more like theusual hacker nonsense.Suddenlyshelongedtodrinkherself into oblivion. Withtired,shufflingstepsshewentintothekitchenandfetchedabottleofTullamoreDewandtwoorthreebeerstorinsehermouthwith, and sat down athercomputersanddrank.Notin celebration. There was no

sense of victory left in herbody. Instead there was …well,what?Defianceperhaps.Shedrankanddrankwhile

the storm roared andcongratulatory whoops camestreaming in from HackerRepublic. But none of ittouched her now. She hardlyhad the strength to stayupright and with a wide,hasty movement she swepther hand across the desktops

and watched withindifference as bottles andashtrays crashed to the floor.Then she thought aboutMikaelBlomkvist.It must have been the

alcohol.Blomkvisthadawayof popping up in herthoughts, as old flames do,when she was drunk, andwithout quite realizing whatshe was doing she hackedinto his computer. She still

hadashortcutintohissystem– itwasnot theN.S.A.,afterall–andatfirstshewonderedwhatshewasdoingthere.Could she care less about

him?Hewas history, just anattractive idiot she had oncehappenedtofallinlovewith,and she was not going tomake that mistake again.She’dmuch ratherget outofthere andnot lookat anothercomputer forweeks.Yet she

stayed on his server and inthe next moment her face litup. Kalle Bloody Blomkvisthad created a file calledLISBETH STUFF and in thatdocument there was aquestionforher:

<What should we make ofFrans Balder’s artificialintelligence?>Shegave a slight smile, in

spite of it all, and that waspartly because of FransBalder. He was her kind of

computer nerd, passionateabout source codes andquantum processors and thepotentialoflogic.Butmostlyshe was smiling at the factthat Blomkvist had stumbledinto the very same situationshe was in, and though shedebated for some timewhether to simply shutdownand go to bed, she wroteback:

<Balder’s intelligence isn’t inthe least bit artificial. How’syour own these days?And what happens,Blomkvist, if we create amachine which is a little bitcleverer than we are?>Then shewent into one of

her bedrooms and collapsedwithherclotheson.

CHAPTER6

20.xi

Despite his best intentions tobe a full-time father, and in

spite of the intense momentof hope and emotion onHornsgatan,FransBalderhadsunk back into that deepconcentrationwhichcouldbemistaken for anger. Now hishairwasstandingonendandhis upper lip was shiny withsweat. It was at least threedays since he had shaved ortakenashower.Hewasevengrinding his teeth. For hoursthe world and the storm

outsidehadceasedtoexistforhim, and he even failed tonotice what was going on athis feet. They were small,awkwardmovements, as if acator ananimalhadcrept inunderhislegs;itwasawhilebeforeherealizedthatAugustwas crawling around underhis desk. Balder gave him adazedlook,asifthestreamofprogramming codes still laylikeafilmoverhiseyes.

“Whatareyouafter?”August looked up at him

withapleading,clearlookinhiseyes.“What?” Balder said.

“What?” and then somethinghappened.Theboypickedupapiece

of paper covered in quantumalgorithms which was lyingon the floor and feverishlymoved his hand back andforth over it. For a moment

Balder thought the boy wasabout to have another attack.But no, it was rather as ifAugust were pretending towrite.Balderfelthisbodygotense and again he wasreminded of somethingimportant and remote, thesame feeling as at thecrossing on Hornsgatan. Butthis time he understoodwhatitwas.

Hethoughtbacktohisownchildhood,whennumbersandequations had been moreimportant than life itself.Hisspirits rose and he burst out,“Youwant todosums,don’tyou?Of course, youwant todo sums!” and the nextmoment he hurried off tofetchsomepensandruledA4paper which he put on thefloorinfrontofAugust.

Then he wrote down thesimplestseriesofnumbershecould think of, Fibonacci’ssequence, in which everynumber is the sum of theprecedingtwo,1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21,andleftaspaceforthenext number – 34. Then itoccurred tohimthat thiswaslikely too simple, so he alsowrote down a geometricsequence: 2, 6, 18, 54… inwhich every number is

multiplied by three and thenextnumbershould thereforebe 162. To solve a problemlike that,he thought, agiftedchildwould not need a greatdeal of prior knowledge.Balder slipped into adaydream that the boy wasnot disabled at all, rather anenhancedcopyofhimself;he,too, had been slow to speakand interact socially, but hehad understoodmathematical

relationships long before heutteredhisfirstword.Hesatbesidetheboyfora

long time and waited. Butnothing happened. Augustjust stared at the numberswith his glassy look. In theend Balder left him alone,wentupstairsanddranksomefizzy water, and then settleddown again at the kitchentabletocontinuetowork.Butnow his concentration was

gone and he began absent-mindedlytoflickthroughthelatest issue of the NewScientist. After half an hourorsohewentbackdownstairsto August, who was stillsitting on his heels in thesame immobile posture inwhich he had left him. ThenBalder noticed somethingintriguing.A second later he had the

sense of being confronted by

something totallyinexplicable.

HannaBalderwasstandinginthe kitchen on Torsgatansmoking a filterless Prince.She had on a blue dressinggownandworngreyslippers,and although her hair wasthick and beautiful and shewasstillattractive,shelookedhaggard.Her lipwasswollen

and the heavy make-uparoundhereyeswasnottherepurely for aesthetic reasons.Hanna Balder had takenanotherbeating.It would be wrong to say

that she was used to it. No-one gets used to that sort ofabuse.But itwas part of hereveryday existence and shecould scarcely remember thehappy person she once hadbeen. Fear had become a

natural element of herpersonalityandforsometimenow she had been smokingsixty cigarettes a day andtakingtranquillizers.Shehadknownforawhile

that Westman regrettedhaving been so generous toFrans. In fact it had been amystery from the start.Westmanhadbeenrelyingonthe money Balder sent themfor August. For long periods

theyhadbeenlivingoffitandoften he would make Hannawrite an email full of liesabout unforeseen expensesfor some educational expertor remedial therapy, whichobviouslythefundshadnevergone anywhere near. That’swhat made it so odd. Whyhad he given up all of thatand let Balder take the boyaway?

Deep down Hanna knewthe answer. It was hubrisbroughtonbyalcohol.Itwasthepromiseofapartinanewdetective series on T.V.4which had boosted hisconfidence still further. Butmost of all it was August.Westman found the boycreepy and weird, eventhough to Hanna that wasincomprehensible.HowcouldanyonedetestAugust?

Hesatonthefloorwithhispuzzles and did not botheranyone. Yet he had thatstrange look which wasturned inwards rather thanoutwards, which usuallymade people smile and saythat theboymusthavearichinner life, but which gotunderWestman’sskin.“Jesus, Hanna! He’s

lookingstraightthroughme,”hewouldburstout.

“Butyousay thathe’s justanidiot.”“He isan idiot,but there’s

something funny about himall the same. I thinkhehatesme.”That was nonsense,

nothingmore.Augustdidnoteven look at Westman or atanyone else for that matter,andhe surelydidnot have itin him to hate anybody. Theworldouttheredisturbedhim

andhewashappiestinsidehisownbubble.ButWestman inhis drunken ravings believedthat the boy was plottingsomething, and that musthave been the reason he letAugust and the money slipout of their lives. Pathetic.Thatat leastwashowHannahadinterpretedit.Butnow,asshe stood there by the sinksmoking her cigarette sofuriously and nervously that

she got tobacco on hertongue,shewonderediftherehad not been something in itafter all. Maybe August didhateWestman.Maybehedidwanttopunishhimforallthepunches he had taken, andmaybe … Hanna closed hereyesandbitherlip…theboyhatedhertoo.She had started having

thesefeelingsofself-loathingever since, at night, she was

overcome by an almostunbearable sense of longingand wondered whether sheand Westman might notactually have damagedAugust.

ItwasnotthefactthatAugusthadfilledintherightanswersto the numerical sequences.That sort of thing did notparticularly impress a man

like Balder. No, it wassomething he saw lying nextto thenumbers.At first sightitlookedlikeaphotographorapainting,butitwasinfactadrawing, an exactrepresentation of the trafficlight on Hornsgatan whichthey had passed the otherevening. It was exquisitelycaptured, in the minutestdetail, with a sort ofmathematicalprecision.

Therewasaglowtoit.No-one had taught Augustanything at all about three-dimensional drawing or howan artist works with shadowand light, yet he seemed tohaveaperfectmasteryof thetechniques.Theredeyeofthetraffic light flashed towardsthem and Hornsgatan’sautumn darkness closedaround it, and in the middleofthestreetyoucouldseethe

man whom Balder hadnoticed and vaguelyrecognized. The man’s headwas cut off above theeyebrows. He lookedfrightened or at leastuncomfortable and troubled,asifAugusthaddisconcertedhim, and he was walkingunsteadily, though goodnessknows how the boy hadmanagedtocapturethat.

“My God,” Balder said.“Didyoudothis?”August neither nodded nor

shook his head but lookedovertowardsthewindow,andBalder had the strangestfeeling that his life wouldneverbethesameagain.

Hanna Balder needed to dosome shopping. Therefrigeratorwasempty.Lasse

could come home at anymomentandhewouldnotbehappyiftherewasnotevenabeerforhim.Buttheweatheroutsidelookedghastlysosheput itoff,and insteadshesatin the kitchen smoking, eventhoughitwasbadforherskinandbadingeneral.She scrolled through her

contacts two, three times, inthe hope that a new namewouldcomeup.Butofcourse

therewereonly the sameoldpeople, and they were alltired of her. Against herbetter judgement she calledMia. Mia was her agent andonce upon a time they hadbeen best friends anddreamed of conquering theworld together. These daysHanna was Mia’s guiltyconscience and she had lostcountofallherexcuses.“It’snot easy for an actress to

growolder,blah,blah.”Whynot just say it straight out?:“You look worn out, Hanna.The public doesn’t love youanymore.”But Mia did not answer

and thatwasprobably justaswell.Theconversationwouldnothavedoneeitherof themany good. Hanna could nothelp looking into August’sroomjusttofeelthatstingingsenseoflosswhichmadeher

realize that she had failed inher life’s most importantmission – motherhood. Insome perverse way she tookcomfort in her self-pity, andshe was standing therewondering whether sheshouldn’tgooutandgetsomebeer after all when thetelephonerang.It was Frans. She made a

face. All day she had beentempted – but did not dare –

to call him to say that shewantedAugustback,not justbecause she missed the boy,still less because she thoughther son would be better offwith her. It was simply inordertoavoidadisaster.Lasse wanted to get the

child support again. Godknows what would happen,shethought,ifheweretoturnup in Saltsjöbaden to claimhis rights. He might even

dragAugustoutofthehouse,scarehimoutofhiswitsandbeat Frans to a pulp. Shewouldhavetowarnhim.Butwhenshepickedupandtriedto say that to Frans, it wasimpossible to get a word inedgeways. He just went onand on about some strangestory which was apparently“totally fantastic andcompletely amazing” and allthatsortofthing.

“I’m sorry, Frans, I don’tunderstand. What are youtalkingabout?”shesaid.“Augustisasavant.He’sa

genius.”“Haveyougonemad?”“Quite the opposite, my

love,I’vecometomysensesat last.You have to get overhere,yes,really,rightnow!Ithink it’s the only way. Youwon’t be able to understandotherwise. I’ll pay for the

taxi. I promise, you’ll flipout. He must have aphotographic memory, yousee? And in someincomprehensible way hemust have picked up thesecrets of perspectivedrawingallbyhimself.It’ssobeautiful, Hanna, so precise.It shines with a light fromanotherworld.”“Whatshines?”

“His traffic light. Weren’tyou listening? The one wepassed the other evening –he’s been drawing a wholeseriesofperfectpicturesofit,actually more than perfect…”“Morethan…”“Well,howcanIputit?He

hasn’t just copied it, Hanna,not just captured it exactly,he’salsoaddedsomething,anartistic dimension. There’s

suchastrangefervourinwhathe’s done, and paradoxicallyenough also somethingmathematical, as if he evenhas some understanding ofaxonometry.”“Axo…?”“Nevermind!Youhave to

come here and see,” he said,and gradually she began tounderstand.OutoftheblueAugusthad

started to draw like a

virtuoso,orsoFransclaimed,and that would of course befantastic if it were true. Butthe sad thingwas thatHannawas still not happy, and atfirstshecouldnotunderstandwhy.Then it dawnedonher.It was because it hadhappened at Frans’ house.The fact was, the boy hadbeen living with her andLasse for years andabsolutely nothing like this

had happened. He had satthere with his puzzles andbuilding blocks and notuttered a word, just havingthoseunpleasantfitswhenhescreamed with that piercingvoiceandthrashedbackwardsand forwards. Now, heypresto, a few weeks withPappaandhewasagenius.It was too much. Not that

she was not happy forAugust.But still, it hurt, and

theworst thingwas: shewasnotassurprisedassheshouldhavebeen.Onthecontrary,itfeltas ifshehadalmostseenit coming; not that the boywould draw accuratereproductionsoftrafficlights,but that therewas somethingmorebeneaththesurface.She had sensed it in his

eyes, in that look which,whenhewasexcited,seemedto register every little detail

of his surroundings. She hadsensed it in theway the boylistened to his teachers, andthe nervous way he leafedthrough themaths books shehadboughtforhim,andmostofallshehadsenseditinhisnumbers. There was nothingso strange as those numbers.Hour after hour he wouldwrite down series ofincomprehensiblylargesums,and Hanna really did try to

understandthem,oratleasttograsp the point of it all. Buthowever hard she tried shehad not been able towork itout, and now she supposedthat she had missedsomethingimportant.Shehadbeen too unhappy andwrapped up in herself tofathomwhatwasgoingoninher son’s mind, wasn’t thatit?“Idon’tknow,”shesaid.

“Don’t knowwhat,” Franssaidinirritation.“I don’t know if I can

come,” she said, and at thesame timeshehearda racketatthefrontdoor.Lasse was coming in with

hisolddrinkingbuddyRogerWinter, and that made herflinch in fear, mutter anapology to Frans and for thethousandth timedwellon the

fact that she was a badmother.

Balder stood on thechequered floor in thebedroom,thetelephoneinhishand,andswore.Hehadhadthe floor laid because itappealed to his sense ofmathematical order, with thesquares repeating themselvesendlessly in the wardrobe

mirrors on either side of thebed. There were days whenhe saw the multiplication ofthe squares reflected there asa teeming riddle, somethingwithalifeofitsownrisingupout of the schematic in thesame way that thoughts anddreamsarisefromneuronsorcomputer programs emergefrom binary codes. But justthen he was lost in quitedifferentthoughts.

“Dear boy. What hasbecome of yourmother?” hesaidaloud.August,whowassittingon

the floor beside him eating acheeseandgherkinsandwich,lookedupwithaconcentratedexpression, and Balder wasseized by a strangepremonition that he wasabouttosaysomethinggrownup and wise. But that wasobviously idiotic. August

remainedassilentaseverandknew nothing about womenwho were neglected and hadfadedaway.Thefact that theidea had even occurred toBalder was of course due tothedrawings.The drawings – by now

therehadbeenthree–seemedtohimtobeproofnotonlyofartistic and mathematicalgifts,butalsoofsomesortofwisdom. The works seemed

so mature and complex intheirgeometricprecision thatBalder could not reconcilethem with August’s mentallimitations. Or rather, he didnot want to reconcile them,because he had long agoworked out what this wasabout.As thefatherofanautistic

son Balder had longsuspected that many parentshoped the notion of a savant

would be their consolationprize to make up for adiagnosis of cognitivedeficiencies. But the oddswereagainstthem.According to a common

estimate, only one in tenchildren with autism hassomekindofsavantgift,andforthemostpartthesetalents,though they often entail afantastic memory andobservation of detail, are not

as startling as those depictedin films. There are, forexample, autistic peoplewhocan say onwhich day of theweek a certain date falls,within a range of severalhundred years – in extremecaseswithin a range of fortythousandyears.Others possess

encyclopaedic knowledgewithinanarrowfield,suchasbus timetables or telephone

numbers. Some can calculatelarge sums in their heads, orremember what the weatherhad been like every day oftheir lives, or are able to tellthetimetothesecondwithoutlookingatawatch.Thereareall kinds of more or lessremarkable talents and, fromwhatBaldergathered,peoplewith these skills are calledtalented savants and capableof quite outstanding

accomplishments given thefact that they are otherwisehandicapped.Another far less common

group iswhereBalder hopedthatAugustbelonged:theso-called prodigious savants,individuals whose talents aresensational whichever wayonelooksatthem.KimPeek,for example, who was theinspiration for “Rain Man”.Kim was severely mentally

disabled and could not evenget dressed by himself. Yethe had memorized twelvethousand books and couldgivealightning-quickanswerto almost any factualquestion. He was known asKimputer.Or Stephen Wiltshire, an

autisticEnglishboywhowasextremely withdrawn as achild and uttered his firstword when he was six – it

happened to be “paper”. BytheageofsevenStephenwasable to draw groups ofbuildingsperfectlyandintheminutest detail, having seenthem for just one briefmoment.HewasflownaboveLondon in a helicopter andwhen he landed he drew theentire city in a fantastic,dizzying panorama, andwitha wonderfully individualtouch.

If Balder understood it allcorrectly,heandAugustmusthave looked at that trafficlight in very different ways.Notonlybecausetheboywasplainly so much morefocused, but also becauseBalder’s brain had instantlyeliminated all non-essentialelements in order toconcentrate on the trafficlight’s key message: go orstop. In all probability his

perception was also cloudedby his thinking about FarahSharif, while for August thecrossing must have appearedexactly as it was, in precisedetail.Afterwards he had taken

theimageawaywithhimlikeafineetching,anditwasnotuntilafewweekslaterthathehadfelttheneedtoexpressit.Thestrangestthingofallwas,hehaddonemorethansimply

reproducethetrafficlightandthe man. He had chargedthemwithadisquietinglight,and Balder could not ridhimself of the thought thatAugust had wanted to saysomethingmore to him than:Lookwhat I can do! For thehundredth time he stared atthedrawingsanditwasasifaneedle had gone into hisheart.

It frightened him. He didnotentirelyunderstandit.Butthere was something aboutthat man. His eyes werebright andhard.His jawwastense and his lips strangelythin, almost non-existent,althoughthatcouldhardlybeheld against him. Still, thelonger he stared at him, themore frightening he looked,and all of a sudden Balderwasgrippedbyanicyfear.

“I love you, my boy,” hemurmured, hardly aware ofwhat he was saying, andpossibly he repeated thesentence once or twicebecause the words began tosoundincreasinglyunfamiliartohisears.Herealizedwithanewsort

of pain that he had neverutteredthembefore,andoncehe had recovered from thefirstshock itoccurred tohim

that there was somethingcontemptible in that. Did ittake an exceptional talent tomakehimlovehisownchild?Itwould be only too typical,if so.All his life he had hadan absolute obsession withachievement.He had never bothered

with anythingwhichwas notinnovative or highly skilled,andwhenhe leftSweden forSilicon Valley he had hardly

given a thought to August.Basically his son was nomore than an irritant in thescheme of brilliantdiscoveries which Balderhimselfwasbusymaking.But now, he promised

himself, things would bedifferent.Hewould set asidehis research and everythingthathad tormentedhim theselast few months, and devote

his whole attention to theboy.He would become a new

person.

CHAPTER7

20.xi

Somethingelsehadhappenedat the magazine, something

bad.ButBergerdidnotwantto give any details over thetelephone. She suggestedcoming round to his place.Blomkvisthadtriedtoputheroff:“You’re going to freeze

thatbeautifulbumofyours!”Berger had paid no

attentionand,butforthetonein her voice, he would havebeen happy that she was sostubborn. Ever since he left

the office he had beenlonging to speak to her, andmaybe even pull her into thebedroom and tear all herclothes off. But somethingtoldhimthiswasnotgoingtohappen now. She hadsounded upset andmumbled,“I’m sorry,” and this onlymadehimmoreworried.“I’llgetataxirightaway,”

shesaid.

It was a while before sheappeared,andoutofboredomhe went into the bathroomand looked in themirror.Hehadcertainlyseenbetterdays.His hairwas dishevelled andneededacutandhehadbagsunder his eyes. That wasbasically Elizabeth George’sfault. He swore and left thebathroom to set aboutcleaningup.

ThatwasonethingatleastthatBergerwouldnotbeableto complain about. Howeverlong they had known eachother, and howeverinterwoventheirlives,hestillsuffered a complex when itcame to tidiness. He was alabourer’ssonandabachelor,she the upper-class marriedwomanwiththeperfecthomeinSaltsjöbaden.Inanycaseitcould do no harm for his

place to look a littlerespectable. He filled thedishwasher, wiped the sinkandputouttherubbish.He even had time to

vacuum the living room,water the flowers on thewindowsill and tidy up thebookshelf andmagazine rackbefore the doorbell rang.Therewasbotharingandanimpatient knock. When he

opened up he was horrified.Bergerwasfrozenstiff.She shook like a leaf, and

not just because of theweather. She was not evenwearing a hat. Thewind hadruined her neat hairstyle andthere was something thatlooked like a graze on herright cheek, which had notbeentherethatmorning.“Ricky!”hesaid.“Areyou

alright?”

“I’ve frozen off thatbeautiful bum of mine.Couldn’tgetataxi.”“What happened to your

face?”“I slipped and fell. Three

times,Ithink.”He looked down at her

dark-red high-heeled Italianboots.“You’ve got perfect snow

bootsontoo.”

“Yes.Ideal.Nottomentionmy decision to go withoutthermals this morning.Brilliant!”“ComeoninandI’llwarm

youup.”She fell into his arms and

shook even more as hehuggedherclose.“I’msorry,”shesaidagain.“Whatfor?”“For everything. For

Serner.I’vebeenafool.”

“Don’t exaggerate now,Ricky.”Hebrushed thesnowflakes

from her hair and foreheadandtookacarefullookathercheek.“No, no, I’ll tell you

everything,”shesaid.“But first get your clothes

offandclimbintoahotbath.Would you like a glass ofred?”

Shewould, and she stayedin the bath for a long whilewith her glass, which herefilledtwoorthreetimes.Hesat on the lid of the toiletlistening to her story, anddespite all the ominous newsthere was something of areconciliation about theirconversation, as if theyweresteadily breaking through awall they had lately beenbuildingupbetweenthem.

“IknowyouthoughtIwasbeing a fool right from thestart,” she said. “No, don’targue, I know you too well.But you have to understandthat Christer, Malin and Icould see no other solution.We had recruited Emil andSofie, andwewere so proudof that.Theywere just aboutthe hottest reporters around,weren’t they? It wasincredibly prestigious for us.

It showed that Millenniumwas on the move and therewas a great buzz,with reallypositive coverage in Resuméand Dagens Media. It waslike the good old days, andpersonally I felt stronglyabout the fact that I hadpromisedbothSofieandEmila secure future at themagazine. ‘Our finances arestable,’ I said. ‘We haveHarriet Vanger behind us.

We’re going to have themoney for fantastic, in-depthreporting.’Youknow,Ireallybelievedittoo.Butthen…”“Thentheskyfellin.”“Exactly,anditwasn’tjust

the newspaper crisis, or thecollapse of the advertisingmarket. There was also thatwholesituationattheVangerGroup. I’m not sure yourealize what a mess it was.SometimesIseeitalmostasa

political coup. All thosereactionary old men in thefamily, and women too forthatmatter–well, youknowthembetter thananyone.Theoldracistsandregressivesgottogether and stabbed Harrietin the back. I’ll never forgetthat call from her. I’ve beenrolled over, she said.Crushed.Ofcourseitwasherefforts to revive andmodernize the group which

had annoyed them, and thenherdecisiontoappointDavidGoldman to the board, theson of Rabbi ViktorGoldman. But we were alsopart of the picture, as youknow;Andreihadjustwrittenhis report on beggars inStockholm, which we allthought was the best thinghe’d ever done, and whichwasquotedeverywhere,even

abroad.ButwhichtheVangerpeople—”“Thought was lefty

rubbish.”“Worsethanthat,Mikael–

propaganda for ‘lazybuggerswhocan’tevenbebotheredtogetthemselvesajob’.”“Isthatwhattheysaid?”“Something along those

lines. My guess is that thestory itself was irrelevant, itwas just their excuse, a

pretext for furtherundermining Harriet’s rolewithin the group. Theywanted to put a stop toeverything that Henrik andHarriethadstoodfor.”“Idiots.”“My God, yes, but that

didn’t exactly help us. Iremember those days. It wasas if the rughadbeenpulledfrom under our feet, and Iknow,Iknow–Ishouldhave

involved you more. But Ithought that we’d all benefitif we left you to concentrateonyourstories.”“And still I didn’t deliver

anythingdecent.”“You tried, Mikael, you

really tried. But what I’mcomingto is that itwasthen,whenitseemedasifwe’dhitrock bottom, that Levinrang.”

“Someone had presumablytippedhimoffaboutwhathadhappened.”“Without a doubt, and I

don’t even need to tell youthat I was sceptical at first.Serner felt like the trashiestsort of tabloid. But Levingave it the works, with hisusual torrent of words, andinvited me down to his bignewvillainCannes.”“What?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’ttellyouthateither.IsupposeI felt ashamed. But I wasgoing down to the filmfestival in any case, to do aprofile on the Iranian filmdirector. You know, the onebeingpersecutedbecause shemade the documentary aboutnineteen-year-old Sara, whohadbeenstoned,andIdidn’tthinkitwoulddoanyharmifSerner helped us with the

travel costs. In any event,Levin and I sat up all nightand talked and I remainedsceptical. He was absurdlyboastfulandcameonwithallthissalestalk.ButeventuallyI began to listen to him, anddoyouknowwhy?”“Hewasafantasticlay?”“Ha, no, it was his

relationshiptoyou.”“Didhewanttosleepwith

me,then?”

“He has boundlessadmirationforyou.”“Bullshit.”“No, Mikael, that’s where

you’re wrong. He loves hispowerandhismoneyandhisvilla in Cannes. But morethan that, it bugs him thathe’s not as cool as you. Ifwe’re talking cred, he’s poorand you’re stinking rich.Deep down he wants to belike you, I felt that right

away,and,yes,Ishouldhaverealizedthatthatsortofenvycan become dangerous. Youdo know what the campaignagainstyouisallabout,don’tyou? Your uncompromisingattitude makes people feelpathetic.Yourveryexistencereminds them justhowmuchthey’ve sold out, and themore you’re acclaimed, thepunier they themselvesappear. When it’s like that,

the only way they can fightback is by dragging youdown. The bullshit givesthem back a little bit ofdignity – at least that’s whattheyimagine.”“Thanks,Erika,butIreally

couldn’t care less about thatcampaign.”“I know, at least I hope

that’s right. But what IrealizedwasthatLevinreallywanted to be inwith us, and

feellikeoneofus.HewantedsomeofourreputationtoruboffonhimandI thought thatwas a good incentive. If hisambitionwas to be cool likeyou, then it would bedevastating for him to turnMillennium into a run-of-the-mill commercial Sernerproduct. IfhebecameknownasthemanwhodestroyedoneofthemostfabledmagazinesinSweden,anycredhemight

stillhavewouldbescupperedforgood.That’swhy I reallybelieved him when he saidthat both he and the groupneeded a prestigiousmagazine, and that he onlywantedtohelpusproducethekind of journalism webelieved in. Admittedly hedidwanttobeinvolvedinthemagazine,butIputthatdowntovanity,thathewantedtobeable to show off and say to

hisyuppiefriendsthathewasourspindoctororsomething.Ineverthoughthewoulddareto have a go at themagazine’ssoul.”“And yet that’s precisely

whathe’sdoingnow.”“Unfortunately,yes.”“Andwheredoesthatleave

your fancy psychologicaltheory?”“I underestimated the

power of opportunism. As

you saw, Levin and Serner’sbehaviour was exemplarybefore this campaign againstyougotgoing,butsincethen…”“He’s been taking

advantageofit.”“No, no, somebody else

has. Somebody who wantedto get at him. I realized onlylaterthatLevindidn’thaveaneasy time persuading theothers to support him in

buying a stake in themagazine. As you mightimagine, not everybody atSerner suffers from ajournalistic inferioritycomplex. Most of them arejust ordinary businessmen;they despise all talk ofstanding up for things thatmatter.Theywereirritatedbywhat they described asLevin’s ‘fake idealism’, andin the campaign against you

they saw an opportunity toputthesqueezeonhim.”“Dear,ohdear.”“Youhavenoidea.Atfirst

it looked O.K. We were toadapt somewhat to themarket, and, as you know, Ithoughtsomeofthatsoundedpretty good. I have, after all,spent a fair amount of timewondering how we couldreachayounger readership. Ireally thought thatLevinand

I were having a productivedialoguesoIdidn’tworrytoomuch about his presentationtoday.”“Inoticedthat.”“But that was before all

hellbrokeloose.”“What are you talking

about?”“The uproar when you

sabotagedhispresentation.”“I didn’t sabotage

anything,Erika.Ijustleft.”

Bergerlayinthebath,tookasipofherwineandthenshesmiledawistfulsmile.“When will you learn that

you’re Mikael Blomkvist?”shesaid.“IthoughtIwasbeginning

togetthehangofthat.”“Apparently not, because

otherwiseyou’dhaverealizedthat when Mikael Blomkvistwalks out in themiddle of apresentation about his own

magazine it’s a big deal,whether Mikael Blomkvistintendsittobeornot.”“In that case I apologize

formysabotage.”“I’m not blaming you, not

any more. Now I’m the onesaying sorry, as you can see.I’m the one who’s put us inthis position. It probablywouldhavegonepear-shapedanyway, whether you’dwalkedoutornot.Theywere

just waiting for an excuse totakeaswingatus.”“Whatactuallyhappened?”“Afteryoudisappearedwe

all felt deflated, and Levin,whose self-esteem had takenyet another knock, no longergave a damn about hispresentation. ‘There’s nopoint,’ he said. He rang hisboss to report back, and heprobablylaiditonabitthick.I suspect that the envy on

whichIhadbeenpinningmyhopes had changed intosomething petty and spiteful.He was back again after anhour or so and said that thegroup was prepared to giveMillennium its full backingand use all its channels tomarketthemagazine.”“Youdidn’t like thesound

ofthat.”“No, and I knew before

he’d even said one word

aboutit.Youcouldtellbythelookonhisface.Itradiatedamixture of fear and triumphand at first he couldn’t findthe right words. He wasmostlywafflingandsaid thatthe group wanted to havemore insight into thebusiness, plus content aimedat a younger readership, plusmorecelebritynews.Butthen…”

Bergershuthereyes,drewher hand through her wethair, then knocked back thelastofherwine.“Yes?”“He said that he wanted

youofftheeditorialteam.”“Hewhat?”“Of course neither he nor

thegroupcouldsayitstraightout, still less could theyafford to get headlines like‘Serner sacks Blomkvist’, so

Ove put it neatly by sayingthathewantedyou tohaveafreer rein and be allowed toconcentrate on what you’rebestat:writingreportage.Hesuggested a strategicrelocation to London and agenerous stringerarrangement.”“London?”“HesaidthatSweden’stoo

small for a guy of your

calibre,butyougetwhat thisisabout.”“They think they can’t

push through theirchanges ifIstayontheeditorialteam?”“Something like that. Still,

Idon’tthinkanyofthemwassurprised when Christer,MalinandI justsaidno, thatitwasn’tevennegotiable.Notto mention Andrei’sreaction.”“Whatdidhedo?”

“I’malmostembarrassedtotellyou.Andreistoodupandsaid that it was the mostshameful thing he’d heard inhiswholelife.Thatyouwereoneofthebestthingswehadin this country, a source ofpride for democracy andjournalism, and that thewhole Serner Group shouldhangtheirheadsinshame.Hesaid that you were a greatman.”

“He does tend toexaggerate.”“Buthe’sagoodkid.”“Hereallyis.Whatdidthe

Sernerpeopledothen?”“Levinwaspreparedforit,

of course. ‘You’re alwayswelcome to buy us out,’ hesaid.‘It’sjust—’”“That the price has gone

up,”Blomkvistcompletedthesentence.

“Exactly. He claimed thatwhichever basis you use forvaluing the business wouldshow that any price forSerner’s interest shouldbeatleastdoublewhatitwaswhenthe group went in, given theadditionalvalueandgoodwillthey’vecreated.”“Goodwill!Havetheygone

mad?”“Notatall,apparently,but

they’re bright, and theywant

to mess us about. And Iwonder if they’re not tryingto kill two birds with onestone: pull off a good dealandgetridofacompetitorbybreakingus financially,all inonego.”“What the hell should we

do?”“What we’re best at,

Mikael: slug it out. I’ll takesome ofmy ownmoney andwe’ll buy themout and fight

to make this northernEurope’sbestmagazine.”“Sure, Erika, but then

what? We’ll end up with alousy financial situationwhichevenyouwon’tbeabletodoanythingabout.”“I know, but it’ll be O.K.

We’ve come through moredifficult situations than this.You and I can waive oursalaries for a while. We canmanage,can’twe?”

“Everything has to endsometime,Erika.”“Don’tsaythat!Ever!”“Notevenifit’strue?”“Especiallynotthen.”“Right.”“Don’t you have anything

in the pipeline?” she said.“Something, anything thatwillstunSweden’smedia?”Blomkvist hid his face in

hishandsandforsomereasonhe thought of Pernilla, his

daughter. She had said thatunlike him she was going towrite “for real”, whatever itwasthatwasnot“real”abouthiswriting.“Idon’tthinkso,”hesaid.Berger smacked her hand

hardonthebathwatersothatitsplashedoutontohissocks.“Jesus, you must have

something.There’sno-one inthis country who gets asmanytip-offsasyoudo.”

“Most of it’s junk,” hesaid. “But maybe … I wasjust in the process ofcheckingsomething.”Bergersatupinthetub.“What?”“No, it’s nothing,” he

backtracked.“It’sjustwishfulthinking.”“Ina situation like thiswe

havetothinkwishfully.”“Yes,butit’sjustaloadof

smoke and nothing you can

prove.”“Yet there’s something

insideyou thatbelieves in it,isn’tthere?”“Maybe,butthat’sbecause

of one little detail whichdoesn’t have anything to dowiththestoryitself.”“What?”“That my old comrade-in-

arms has also been at thestory.”“TheonewithacapitalS?”

“Theveryone.”“Well, that does sound

promising,” Berger said, andsteppedoutofthebath,nakedandbeautiful.

CHAPTER8

20.xi,Evening

August was kneeling on thecheckedfloorinthebedroom,

looking at a still-lifearrangementwitha litcandleon a blue plate, two greenapples and an orange whichhisfatherhadsetoutforhim.But nothing was happening.August stared emptily at thestorm outside and Balderwondered: Does it makesense topresent theboywithasubject?Hissononlyhadtoglance

at something for it to be

embedded in his mind, sowhy should his father of allpeople choose what he wassupposed to draw? Augustmust have thousands ofimages of his own in hishead. Maybe a plate andsome pieces of fruit were aswrong as could be. Onceagain Balder asked himself:Wastheboy trying toconveysomething in particular withhistrafficlight?Thedrawing

was no casual littleobservation.On the contrary,the stop light shone like abaleful glowering eye, andmaybe – what did Balderknow? – August had feltthreatenedbythemanonthatpedestriancrossing.Balderlookedathissonfor

the umpteenth time that day.It was shameful, wasn’t it?Heused to think thatAugustwas simply weird and

unfathomable. Now hewondered if he and his sonwere not in actual fact alike.WhenBalderwasyoung, thedoctorsdidnotgoinsomuchfor diagnoses. In those days,there was a far greatertendencytodismisspeopleasbeing odd. He himself haddefinitelybeendifferentfromother children, much tooserious–hisfacialexpressionnever changed – and no-one

in the school playgroundthought he was much fun.Nor did he find the otherchildren particularlyentertaining either – hesoughtrefugeinnumbersandequationsandavoidedtalkingmorethanhewasrequiredto.He would probably not

havebeenconsideredautisticin the same sense asAugust.But nowadays they probablywould have stuck an

Asperger’s label on him. Heand Hanna had believed thattheearlydiagnosisofAugustwouldhelpthem,yetsolittlehad been done, and it wasonly now, now that his sonwas eight, that Balderdiscovered the boy had aspecial mathematical andspatial talent. How comeHanna andWestman had notnoticed?

Even if Westman was abastard, Hanna wasfundamentallyasensitiveandgood person. Balder wouldnever forget their firstmeeting. It was an eveningfunction of the I.V.A., theRoyal Swedish Academy ofEngineering Sciences, atStockholm’sRådhuset,wherehe was being given someprize that he cared nothingabout.Hehad spent aboring

evening longing to get hometo his computer when abeautiful woman whom hevaguely recognized –Balder’s knowledge of theworldofcelebritywaslimited–cameuptohimandstartedtotalk.Balderstillthoughtofhimself as the nerd fromTappström school who gotnothing but contemptuouslooksfromthegirls.Hecouldnotunderstandwhatawoman

likeHannasawinhim.Atthetime–ashewassoontofindout–shewasattheheightofher career. But she seducedhim and made love to himthatnightlikenowomanhaddone before. Then followedmaybe the happiest time inhis lifeandyet…thebinarycodeswonoutoverlove.He worked until the

marriage fell apart. LasseWestmanarrivedonthescene

andHannawentdownhillandprobablyAugust did aswell,which should of course havemade Balder wild with fury.But heknew that he toowasto blame. He had bought hisfreedom and not botheredabout his son and perhapswhat was said during thecustodyhearingwastrue,thathe had chosen the dream ofartificial life over that of hisown child. What a

monumental idiot he hadbeen.He got out his laptop and

wentonGoogletolearnmoreabout savant skills. He hadalready ordered a number ofbooks, and in his usual waymeant to teach himselfeverythingtherewastoknow.No damn psychologist oreducationalist would be abletocatchhimoutand tellhimwhat August needed at this

point. He would know thatbetter than any of them andso he continued searchinguntilhisattentionwascaughtbythestoryofanautisticgirlcalledNadia.Whathappened toherwas

described in Lorna Selfe’sbook Nadia: A Case ofExtraordinary DrawingAbility in an Autistic ChildandinOliverSacks’TheManWhoMistook His Wife for a

Hat. Balder read infascination. Itwasagrippingstoryandinmanywaystherewere parallels. Like August,Nadia had seemed perfectlyhealthy when she was born,and only gradually did herparentsrealizethatsomethingwasamiss.The girl did not start

speaking. She did not lookpeople in the eye. Shedisliked physical contact and

did not respond to hermother’ssmilesorattemptsatcommunication. She was forthe most part quiet andwithdrawn and compulsivelytore paper intonarrow strips.By the time she was six shehadstillnotspokenaword.Yet she could draw like

Leonardo da Vinci. Alreadyattheageofthree,andoutofthe blue, she had begun todraw horses. Unlike other

childrenshedidnotstartwiththe entire animal, but insteadwith some little detail – ahoof, a rider’s boot, a tail –and the strangest thing of allwas that she drew fast. In aterrifichurrysheputtogethertheparts,onehere,onethere,untilshehadaperfectwhole,a horse which galloped orwalked.Fromhisowneffortswhen he was a teenagerBalder knew how

exceptionallydifficult it is todraw an animal in motion.However hard you try, theresult is unnatural or stiff. Ittakesamastertoteaseoutthelightness in the movements.Nadiawasamasteralreadyattheageofthree.Her horses were like

perfect stills, drawn with alighttouch,andobviouslynotthe result of any longtraining. Her virtuosity burst

out like a breaking dam, andthat fascinated hercontemporaries. How was itpossible for her to leapfrogcenturies of development inthe history of art with just afew quick hand movements?The Australian specialistsAllan Snyder and JohnMitchellstudiedthedrawingsand in 1999 presented atheory, which has graduallywon general acceptance, to

theeffect thatweallhaveaninherited capacity to reachthat level of virtuosity, butthat in most of us it isblocked.If we see a football, for

example, we do notimmediately understand thatit is a three-dimensionalobject. Instead, the brainprocessesaseriesofdetailsatlightning speed: the way inwhich shadows fall and the

differences in depth andnuance, from which it thendraws certain conclusionsabout shape. We are notconscious of this. But itrequires an examination ofthe separate parts before wecan register something assimple as the fact that whatwe see is a ball and not acircle.It is the brain which then

produces the final form and,

when it does, we no longersee all the detail we firstregistered.Wecannotseethetrees for the wood, so tospeak. But what struckMitchellandSnyderwasthat,if only we could reproducethe original image in ourminds, we would be able tosee the world in an entirelynew way, and perhaps evenrecreateit,asNadiahaddone

without any trainingwhatsoever.Nadia saw the myriad

details before they had beenprocessed, which is why shebegan each time with anindividualpart,suchasahooforanose,becausethetotalityaswe perceive it did not yetexist in her mind. Balderfound the idea appealing,even if he saw a number ofproblems with the theory, or

at least had a number ofquestions.Inmanyways thiswas the

sort of original thinking healways looked for in hisresearch: an approach whichtook nothing for granted butlooked beyond the obvious,downtothesmalldetails.Hegrewmoreobsessedwith thesubject and read on withincreasing fascination until,quite suddenly, he shuddered

and even cried out loud,staring at his sonwith a stabof anxiety. It had nothing todowiththeresearchfindings,ratherwith thedescriptionofNadia’sfirstyearatschool.Nadia had been put in a

school for autistic children,where the teaching wasfocusedongettinghertotalkfor the first time. The girlmade some progress – thewordscame,onebyone.But

therewasahighpricetopay.As she started to talk, herbrilliance with crayonsdisappearedand,accordingtotheauthorLornaSelfe,itwaslikely that one language wasbeing replaced by another.From having been an artisticgenius, Nadia became aseverely handicapped autisticgirlwhowas able to speak alittlebutwhohadentirelylostthegiftthathadastoundedthe

world.Wasitworthit,justtobeabletosayafewwords?No,Balderwantedtoshout

out, possibly because he hadalways been prepared to dowhatever it took tobecomeagenius in his field. Anythingbut the ordinary! That hadbeenhisguidingprincipleallhis life, and yet … he wasclever enough to understandthat his own elitist principleswere not necessarily a good

pointer to the right wayforward now. Maybe a fewfabulous drawings werenothingascomparedtobeingabletoaskforaglassofmilk,orexchangeafewwordswithafriend,orafather.Whatdidheknow?Yethe refused tobe faced

with suchachoice.Hecouldnot bear to give up themostwonderful thing that hadhappenedinAugust’slife.No

… that was simply not anoption.Noparentshouldhaveto decide. After all, no-onecould anticipate what wasbestforthechild.Themorehethoughtabout

it, the more unreasonable itseemed, and it occurred tohimthathedidnotbelieveit,orperhapsthathesimplydidnotwanttobelieveit.Nadia’swasafterallonlyonecase.

He had to find out more.Butjustthenhismobilerang.Ithadbeenringingalotoverthe last few hours. One callhad been from a withheldnumber and another fromLinus, his former assistant.Hehad lessand less timeforLinus; he was not even surehe trusted him– certainly hedid not feel like talking tohimnow.

Yet he answered, maybeout of sheer nervousness. Itwas Gabriella Grane, thelovelyanalyst at theSecurityPolice, and that put a littlesmileonhisface.AfterFarahSharif,Gabriellacameaclosesecond. She had sparklinglybeautiful eyes and she wassharp-witted. He had aweaknessforsmartwomen.“Gabriella,” he said, “I’d

love to talk,but Idon’thave

the time. I’m right in themiddleofsomething.”“You’vedefinitelygottime

for what I have to tell you,”shesaidwithuncharacteristicseverity.“You’reindanger.”“Oh,nonsense,Gabriella!I

toldyou, theymay try tosuethe shirt off my back – butthat’sall.”“Frans,I’msorry,butsome

new information has comethrough, and from an

extremely well-informedsource at that. There doesappeartobeagenuinerisk.”“What do you mean?” he

said, distracted. With thetelephone clamped betweenhis shoulder and ear, he wasskimming another article onNadia’slostgift.“I’m finding it hard to

assess the information, Iadmit that, but it’s worrying

me,Frans. Itdoeshave tobetakenseriously.”“In that case, yes. I do

promise I’ll be extra careful.I’llstayindoorsasusual.ButI’m a bit busy just now, as Iwas saying. Besides, I’m allbut convinced that you’rewrong.AtSolifon—”“Sure, sure, I could be

wrong,” she cut in. “That’spossible. But what if I’m

right, what if there’s even atiny,tinyriskthatIam?”“Well—”“Frans,listentome.Ithink

you’re right. Nobody atSolifon wants to do youphysicalharm.It’sacivilizedcompany, after all. But itseems as if someone or evenmore than one person in thecompany is in touch with acriminal organizationoperating out of Russia and

Sweden. That’s where thethreatiscomingfrom.”Baldertookhiseyesoffthe

computer screen for the firsttime.He knew that ZigmundEckerwald at Solifon wascooperating with a group ofcriminals. He had evenpicked up some codenamesfor the leader of that group,but he could not understandwhytheywouldgoafterhim.Orcouldhe?

“Acriminalorganization?”hemuttered.“Yes,” Grane said. “And

isn’t it logical, in a way?That’s more or less whatyou’ve been saying, isn’t it?That once you’ve startedstealingsomeoneelse’sideas,andmademoney from them,then you’ve already crossedthe line. It’s downhill fromthereon.”

“I think what I actuallysaid was that all you neededwasagangoflawyers.Withagang of sharp lawyers youcansafelystealwhateveryoulike.Lawyersarethehitmenofourtimes.”“O.K.,maybeso.Butlisten

to me: I haven’t yet gotapproval for your personalprotection,soIwanttomoveyou to a secret location. I’mcomingtocollectyou.”

“Whatareyousaying?”“I think we have to act

immediately.”“Notachance.Iand…”Hehesitated.“Do you have someone

elsethere?”“No, no, but I can’t go

anywhererightnow.”“Aren’t you listening to

whatI’msaying?”“Ihearyouloudandclear.

But with all due respect it

soundstomeasifit’smostlyspeculation.”“Speculationisanessential

tool in assessing risk, Frans.And the person who got intouchwithme…IsupposeIshouldn’treallybesayingthis… is an agent from theN.S.A.whohasthisparticularorganization undersurveillance.”“TheN.S.A.!”hesnorted.

“Iknowyou’rescepticalofthem.”“Sceptical doesn’t even

begintodescribeit.”“O.K., O.K. But this time

they’re on your side, at leastthis agent is. She’s a goodperson. By eavesdroppingshe’s picked up somethingwhich could very well be aplantoeliminateyou.”“Me?”

“There’s a lot to suggestthat.”“‘Could very well’ and

‘suggest’…itallsoundsveryvague.”August reached for his

pencils, and Balderconcentrated on that for amoment.“I’m stayingwhere I am,”

hesaid.“You’vegottobejoking.”

“No,I’mnot.I’dbehappyto move if you get moreinformation, but not rightnow. Besides, the alarmMilton installed is excellent.I’ve got cameras and sensorseverywhere. And you doknow that I’m a stubbornbastard,don’tyou.”“Doyouhaveaweaponof

anykind?”“What’s got into you,

Gabriella? A weapon! The

mostdangerousthingIownismynewcheeseslicer.”“You know …” she said,

lettingthewordshang.“Yes?”“I’m going to arrange

protection for you, whetheryou want it or not. I doubtyou’ll even notice it. Butsince you’re going to be sodamned obstinate, I haveanother piece of advice foryou.”

“Tellme.”“Gopublic.Tell themedia

what you know – then, ifyou’re lucky, there’ll be nopoint in someone getting ridofyou.”“I’llthinkaboutit.”Balderhaddetectedanote

of distraction in Grane’svoice.“O.K.?”hesaid.“Waitamoment,”shesaid.

“I’vegotsomeoneelseonthe

line.Ihaveto…”Shewasgone, andBalder,

who should have had muchelse to mull over, foundhimself thinking of only onething: will August lose hisability todraw if I teachhimtotalk?“Are you still there?”

Grane asked after a shortwhile.“Ofcourse.”

“I’m afraid I have to go.ButIpromisetoseetoitthatyou get some sort ofprotection as rapidly aspossible. I’ll be in touch.Takecare!”Hehungupwithasighand

thought again of Hanna, andof August and the checkedfloor reflected in thewardrobe doors, and of allkindsofthingswhichseemedirrelevant just then. Almost

absent-mindedly he said tohimself,“They’reafterme.”Hecouldseethatitwasnot

unreasonable,eventhoughhehadalwaysrefusedtobelievethatitwouldactuallycometoviolence. But what, in fact,did he know? Nothing.Besides, he could not bebothered to address it now.He continued his search forinformation on Nadia, andwhat implications this might

haveforhisson,butthatwasinsane. He was burying hishead in the sand. DespiteGrane’s warning he keptsurfing and soon came uponthe name of a professor ofneurology, an expert onsavant syndrome calledCharles Edelman. Instead ofreading on as he normallywould – Balder alwayspreferred the written to thespoken word – he called the

switchboardattheKarolinskaInstitute.Thenitstruckhimhowlate

it was. This Edelman wasunlikely to be at work still,andhishomenumberwasnoton the website. But wait amoment … he was also theheadofEkliden,aninstitutionfor autistic children withspecial abilities. Balder triedcalling there. The telephoneranganumberoftimesbefore

a woman answered andintroduced herself as NurseLindros.“I’m sorry to disturb you

so late in the evening,”Balder said. “I’m looking forProfessorEdelman.Mighthepossiblystillbethere?”“Yes,infact,heis.No-one

issettingoffforhomeinthisdreadfulweather.WhomayIsayiscalling?”

“Frans Balder,” he said,and in case it might help headded: “Professor FransBalder.”“Just a moment,” Nurse

Lindros said, “I’ll see if he’savailable.”Balder stared down at

August,whowas once againgrippinghispencilhesitantly,and that worried himsomehow, as if it were anominous sign. “A criminal

organization,” he mutteredagain.“Charles Edelman,” a

voice said. “Am I reallytalkingtoProfessorBalder?”“The very same. I have a

little—”“You can’t know what an

honourthisis,”Edelmansaid.“I’m just back from aconferenceatStanfordwherewe actually discussed yourwork on neural networks; in

fact we were even askingourselves if we neurologistsdon’t have a great deal tolearnabout thebrain throughthe back door, as it were,through A.I. research. Wewerewondering—”“I’m flattered,” Balder

interrupted. “But right now Ihave a quick question foryou.”“Oh,really?Isitsomething

todowithyourresearch?”

“Not at all. I have anautistic son.He’s eight yearsold and hasn’t yet said asingleword,buttheotherdaywe passed a traffic light onHornsgatan andafterwards…”“Yes?”“Hejustsatdownanddrew

it at lightning speed,completely perfectly. It wasastonishing!”

“Andyouwantmetocomeand take a look atwhat he’sdone?”“I’dlikethat.Butthat’snot

why Icalled.The fact is thatI’m worried. I’ve read thatperhapsdrawingisthewayinwhich he interacts with theworldaroundhim,andthathemight lose this ability if helearnstotalk.”“Icantellthatyou’vebeen

readingaboutNadia.”

“Howdoyouknowthat?”“Because she’s always

mentionedinthiscontext.But…mayIcallyouFrans?”“Ofcourse.”“Excellent, Frans, and I’m

so glad you called. I can tellyou straight away that youhavenothing toworry about.Onthecontrary–Nadiaistheexceptionthatprovestherule,no more than that. Allresearch shows that speech

development actuallyenhances savant abilities. Itcan happen, of course, thatchildren lose those skills,butthat is mostly due to otherfactors. They get bored, orthere’s a significant event intheirlives.YouprobablyreadthatNadialosthermother.”“Idid.”“Maybe that was the

reason,even thoughneither Inoranyoneelsecanknowfor

sure. But there’s virtually noother documented case of asimilarevolution,andI’mnotjustsaying thisoff the topofmy head, or because ithappens to be my ownhypothesis. There is broadconsensus today to the effectthat savants have everythingtogainfromdevelopingtheirintellectual skills on alllevels.”“Andyou’resureofthat?”

“Yes,definitely.”“He’s also good at

numbers.”“Really?” Edelman said

thoughtfully.“Whydoyousaythat?”“Because it is extremely

rare in a savant for artisticability to be combined withmathematical talent. Thesetwo different skills havenothing in common, and

sometimestheyseemeventoblockeachother.”“But that’s how it is with

my son. There’s a kind ofgeometricprecisionabouthisdrawings,asifhehadworkedouttheexactproportions.”“How fascinating. When

canIseehim?”“I don’t really know. For

the timebeing I onlywantedsomeadvice.”

“In that casemy advice isclear:makeaneffortwiththeboy. Stimulate him. Let himdevelop his skills in everyway.”“I…”Balderfeltastrange

pressure in his chest andfoundithardtogetthewordsout.“Iwanttothankyou,”hesaid.“Reallythankyou.NowIhaveto…”“It’s been such an honour

to talk to you; it would be

wonderful tobe able tomeetyou and your son. I’vedeveloped quite asophisticated test for savants,ifImayboastalittle.Icouldhelpyougettoknowtheboybetter.”“Yes,ofcourse,thatwould

be terrific. But now I must…”Baldermumbled,withoutknowing what he wanted tosay. “Goodbye, and thankyou.”

“Oh,mypleasure, really. Ihope to hear from you againsoon.”Balderhungupandsatstill

for a moment, his handscrossed over his chest, andlookedathisson.Augustwasstill gazing at the burningcandle, the yellow pencil inhis hand. A shudder wentacross Balder’s shoulders,andthetearscame.Whateverelse you might say about

Professor Balder, hewas notonetocryeasily.In fact he could not

remember when it had lasthappened. Not when hismother died, and definitelynotwhenwatchingorreadinganything. He thought ofhimself as a block of stone.But now, in front of his sonwith his rows of pencils andcrayons, the professor criedlike a child and he just let it

happen, and of course it hadbeen Charles Edelman’swords.August would be able to

learntospeakandcouldkeepdrawing, and that wasoverwhelming news. ButBalder was not crying justbecause of that of course.There was also the drama atSolifon.Thedeaththreat.Thesecrets he was privy to andthe longing for Hanna or

Farah or anyone who couldfillthegapinhisheart.“Mylittleboy!”hesaid,so

emotional he failed to noticehislaptopswitchitselfonandshowpicturesfromoneofthesurveillance cameras outsidethehouse.Out in the garden, in the

blustering storm, therewas atall, thin man in a paddedleatherjacket,withagreycappulled down to conceal his

face. Whoever it was knewthathewasbeingfilmed,andeven if he seemed lean andagile there was something inhis swaying walk which wasreminiscentofaheavyweightboxer on his way into thering.

Grane was sitting in heroffice at Säpo searching thewebandtheagency’srecords.

Shedidnotreallyknowwhatshe was looking for. Butsomething unfamiliar andworrying was gnawing awayather,somethingvague.Her conversation with

Balder had been interruptedby Helena Kraft, chief ofSäpo, who was looking forheragaintodiscussthesamematter as before. AlonaCasalesat theN.S.A.wantedto continue their

conversation; this time shesounded calmer, and again alittleflirtatious.“Haveyoumanagedtosort

out your computers?” Granesaid.“Ha … yes, that was a

circus, but I don’t think it’sanythingserious. I’msorry ifIwasalittlecrypticlasttime.I don’t have much of achoice. I just want to stressagain that the level of threat

against Professor Balder isboth real and serious, eventhough we know nothing forcertain.Didyouhavetimetodealwithit?”“I’ve spoken to him. He

refuses to leave his house,toldmehewasin themiddleof something. I’m going toarrangeprotection.”“Fine. As you might have

guessed I’ve donemore thanjust quickly check you out.

I’m very impressed, MissGrane. Shouldn’t someonelike you be working forGoldman Sachs and earningmillions?”“Notmystyle.”“Mine neither. I wouldn’t

saynoto themoney,but thisunderpaid snooping is moremything.Now,honey,here’sthe situation. As far as mycolleaguesare concerned thisisn’t a big deal – which I

happentodisagreewith.Andnot just because I’mconvinced that this grouprepresents a threat to ournationaleconomic interests. Ialso think there are politicalimplications. One of thoseRussiancomputerengineersImentioned, a guy calledAnatoli Chabarov, is alsolinked to Ivan Gribanov, amember of the RussianDuma.He’s notorious, and a

major shareholder inGazprom.”“Iunderstand.”“Butmostofitsofarisjust

deadends.I’vespenta lotoftime trying to crack theidentity of the person at thetop.”“The man they call

Thanos.”“Orwoman.”“Woman?”

“Icouldbewrong. Iknowthis type of group tends toexploit women, not promotethem to leadership positions,and this figure has mostlybeenreferredtoasahe…”“Then what makes you

thinkitmightbeawoman?”“A sort of reverence, you

could say. They talk about‘Thanos’ in the same waymen through the ages have

spoken about women theydesireandrevere.”“Abeauty,inotherwords.”“Right.ButmaybeI’mjust

picking up somehomoeroticism. Nothingwouldmakemehappier thanif Russian gangsters andbigwigs in general were toindulge more in thatdepartment.”“Ha,true!”

“In fact I mention it onlyso that you’ll keep an openmind if thismessendsuponyour desk. You understandthere are also quite a fewlawyersmixedupinit.Whatelse is new, right? Hackerssteal and lawyers legitimizethetheft.”“‘True.Balder’ssaidtome

thatwe’reallequalbeforethelaw – if we pay the sameamount.’”

“Yes, if you can afford astrong defence you can getawaywithwhateveryouwantthesedays.YoudoknowwhoBalder’s legal opponents are,don’t you? The WashingtonfirmDackstone&Partner.”“Sure.”“Inthatcaseyouknowthat

thefirmisalsousedbylargetechcompaniestosuetheshitout of inventors andinnovators hoping to get

somemodestrewardfortheircreations.”“Idiscoveredthatwhenwe

were dealing with thelawsuits of that inventorHåkanLans.”“Grim, wasn’t it? But the

interesting thing is thatDackstonecropsupinoneofthe few conversations we’vemanaged to track down anddecrypt from this criminalnetwork, although there the

firm is simply referred to asD.P.,orevenD.”“So Solifon and these

crooks have the samelawyers?”“It looks like it, and that’s

notall.DackstoneisabouttoopenanofficeinStockholm–do you know how we foundthatout?”“No,”Granesaid.Shewas

beginning to feel stressed.She wanted to finish the

conversation and ensure thatBalder got his policeprotection.“Through our surveillance

of this group,” Casales wenton. “We know Chabarovmentions it once in passing,which suggests that there areties to the firm. The groupknew about the officeopening even before itbecame public, andDackstone & Partner is

setting up in Stockholmtogether with a Swedishlawyer called Brodin. Heused tobeacriminal lawyer,and if you remember hewasknown forgetting a little toocosywithhisclients.”“Idorememberthatclassic

picture in the evening papers– Kenny Brodin out on thetown with some gangsters,withhishandsalloveracallgirl,”Granesaid.

“Isawthat.I’dbetthatMrBrodinisagoodplacetostartifyouwant to checkout thisstory. Who knows? Maybehe’s the link between bigbusinessandthisgroup.”“I’ll take a look at it,”

Grane said. “But right nowI’ve got a number of otherthings to deal with. I’m surewe’llbeintouchagainsoon.”She called the duty officer

for Säpo’s Personal

Protection Unit, who thatevening was none other thanStig Yttergren. Her heartsank. Yttergren was sixty,overweight, known to be aheavydrinker,andmostofallhe liked toplaycardsonline.He was sometimes called“Officer No-Can-Do”. Sheproceeded to explain thesituation in her mostauthoritative tone anddemanded that Professor

FransBalderinSaltsjö-badenbe given a bodyguard asrapidly as possible. As usualYttergren responded bysaying that it would beextremely difficult, perhapsnotpossible at all.When shecountered by saying that thiswas an order from the chiefof Säpo herself, he mutteredsomething whichmight evenhave been “that stroppycunt”.

“I didn’t hear that,”Granesaid. “Just make sure this isput in place immediately.”Which of course it was not.While she was waiting anddrumming her fingers on herdesk, she searched forinformation on Dackstone &Partnerandanythingelseshecould find linked to whatCasaleshadbeentellingher–and that is when she was

overcome by a sense ofsomethinghorriblyfamiliar.But she could not put her

fingeronit.BeforeshecouldfindwhatshewaslookingforYttergren called back to saythat no-one from PersonalProtection was available.Therewasanunusualamountof activity for the royalfamily that evening, he said,some sort of publicengagement with the

Norwegian crown prince andprincess,andtheleaderoftheSwedish Democrats had hadan ice cream thrown at hishead before his guards couldintervene, which meant thatthey had had to providereinforcements for his latespeechinSödertälje.So Yttergren had sent out

“two great guys from theregular police”, Peter Blomand Dan Flinck, and Grane

had to make do with that,even if theirnamesremindedher of Kling and Klang inPippi Longstocking. For amoment she had seriousmisgivings. Then she gotangrywithherself.It was so typical of her

snobbishbackgroundtojudgepeople by their names. Shemight have had more causeforconcerniftheyhadaposhname like Gyllentofs or

something. Then they couldhave been irresponsiblelayabouts. I’m sure this’ll befine,shethought.Thenshegotbacktowork.

It was going to be a longnight.

CHAPTER9

20.xi–21.xi,Night

Salander woke up lyingstraight across the kingsize

double bed and realized thatshehadbeendreamingabouther father. A feeling ofmenacesweptoverher likeacloak. But then sheremembered the eveningbefore and concluded that itcouldaseasilybeachemicalreactioninherbody.Shehada terrible hangover. She gotup on wobbly legs and wentinto the large bathroom –with the jacuzzi and the

marble and all the idioticluxuries – to be sick. Butnothing happened and shejust sank to the floor,breathingheavily.Then she stood up and

looked at herself in themirror, which was notespecially reassuring either.Her eyes were red. On theother hand it was not longaftermidnight.Shemusthaveslept for a few hours only.

She took a glass from thebathroomcupboardandfilleditwithwater.Butatthesamemoment the details of herdream came flooding backand she crushed the glass inher hand. Blood dripped tothe floor, and she swore andrealizedthatshewasunlikelytobegoingbacktosleep.Shouldshetrytocrackthe

encryptedN.S.A.fileshehaddownloaded? No, that would

bepointless,atleastfornow.Instead she wound a towelaround her hand and tookfrom her bookshelves a newstudy by Princeton physicistJulie Tammet, whichdescribed how a big starcollapses into a black hole.She laydownon the sofa bythe windows overlookingSlussenandRiddarfjärden.As she began to read she

feltalittlebetter.Bloodfrom

the towel did seep onto thepagesandherheadwouldnotstop hurting, but she becamemore and more engrossed inthebook,everynowandthenmakinganote in themargin.None of it was new to her.She knew better than mostthat a star stays alive as aresult of two opposingactions, the fusion reactionsatitscoreforcingitoutwardsand the gravitational pull

keeping it together. She sawitasabalancingact,a tugofwar from which a victoreventually emerges, once thefuelforthereactionsrunsoutandtheexplosionsweaken.Once gravity gains the

upperhand,thecelestialbodyshrinks like a puncturedballoon and becomes smallerand smaller. In this way, astar can vanish into nothing.

Salander liked black holes.Shefeltanaffinitywiththem.Yet,likeJulieTammet,she

was not interested in blackholesperse,butratherintheprocess which creates them.Salander was convinced thatifonlyshecoulddescribethatprocess shewouldbe able todraw together the twoirreconcilable languages ofthe universe, quantumphysics and the theory of

relativity.Butitwasnodoubtbeyond her capabilities, justlike the bloody encryption,and involuntarily she beganagain to think about herfather.Whenshewasachild,that

revoltingspecimenhadrapedher mother over and overagain, right up until the timeher mother received injuriesfromwhich she would neverrecover. Salander herself,

then twelve, hit back with ahorrificforce.Atthetimeshecould have no idea that herfather was an important spywho had defected from theG.R.U., the Soviet militaryintelligenceservice,norcouldshe know that a specialdepartment within theSwedish Security Police,referredtoastheSection,wasprotecting him at any cost.Yeteventhensheunderstood

that there was some mysterysurrounding the man, adarknessno-onewasallowedtoapproachinanyway.Thateven applied to so simple athingashisname.Zala, or Alexander

Zalachenko to be moreprecise. Other fathers couldbe reported to the socialservices and the police. ButZala had forces behind himwhichwereaboveallthat.

It was this and one otherthingwhichforherweretrueblackholes.

The alarm went off at 1.18andBalderwokewithastart.Was there someone in thehouse? He felt aninexplicable fear and reachedacross the bed. August waslying beside him. The boymust have crept in as usual,

and now he whimpered withworry,asifthewailingofthesiren had made its way intohis dreams. My little boy,Balder thought. Then hestiffened. Were thosefootsteps?No, he must be imagining

things. All you could hearwas the alarm. He cast aworried look towards thestormbeyondthewindows.Itseemedtohavegrownworse.

The sea was beating againstthe jetty and the shore. Thewindowpanes shook andbowed.Couldthealarmhavebeen set off by a gust ofwind? Perhaps it was assimpleasthat.Hestillhadtochecktosee

if that protection GabriellaGrane was organizing hadarrivedatlast.Twomenfromthe regular police weresupposed to have been there

hours ago. It was a farce.Theyhadbeendelayedbythestorm and by a series ofconflicting orders. It waseither one thing or another,and he agreedwithGrane, itseemed hopelesslyincompetent.Hewouldhavetodealwith

that in due course. Now hehad to make a call. ButAugust was beginning towake up, and a hysterical

child banging his bodyagainsttheheadboardwasthelastthingBalderneededrightnow. The earplugs, itoccurred to him, those oldgreenearplugshehadboughtatFrankfurtairport.He took them from the

bedside table and gentlypushed them into his son’sears. Then he tucked him inand kissed him on the cheekandstrokedhiscurly, tousled

hair, straightened the collaron the boy’s pyjamas andmade sure that his head wasresting comfortably on thepillow.Balderwasfrightenedand should have been in ahurry,orhadevery reason tobe.Yet he took his time andfussed over his son. Perhapsit was a sentimental momentinthemidstofacrisis.Orhewantedtoputoffconfrontingwhatever awaited him out

there. For a moment hewishedhedidhaveaweapon.Not that he would haveknownhowtouseit.Hewas a programmer, for

heaven’s sake, who haddeveloped some paternalinstinct in his old age, thatwasall.Heshouldneverhavegot into this mess. To hellwith Solifon and the N.S.A.and all criminal gangs! Butnow he had to get a grip.

Withstealthy,uncertainstepshewentintothehallway,andbefore doing anything else,beforeevenlookingoutattheroad,heturnedoffthealarm.Therackethadsethisnerveson edge and in the suddensilence which followed hestood stock still. Then hismobile rangandeven thoughitstartledhimhewasgratefulforthedistraction.“Yes,”hesaid.

“Hello, this is JonasAnderberg, I’m on dutytonight atMiltonSecurity. Iseverythingalright?”“What,well… I think so.

Myalarmwentoff.”“I know that and,

according toour instructions,when this happens you’resupposed to go down to aspecialroominthecellarandlock thedoor.Areyoudownthere?”

“Yes,”helied.“Good,verygood.Doyou

knowwhat’shappened?”“No idea.The alarmwoke

me up. I have no clue whatset it off.Could it havebeenthestorm?”“Unlikely…Onemoment

please!”Anderberg’svoicesounded

abitunfocused.“What is it?” Balder said

nervously.

“Itseems…”“For God’s sake, tell me

what’sgoingon.”“Sorry, just take it easy,

take it easy … I’m goingthrough the picture sequencefrom your cameras, and itdoeslookasif…”“Asifwhat?”“Asifyou’vegotavisitor.

Aman,well,youcanseeforyourself later, a lanky manwith dark glasses and a cap

has been prowling aroundyour property. He’s beenthere twice, as far as I cansee,butasIsaid…I’veonlyjust noticed it now. I’d haveto look at it more closely tobeabletosaymore.”“Whatsortofpersonisit?”“Well,it’shardtosay.”Anderberg seemed to be

studying the picturesequencesagain.

“But maybe … I don’tknow… no, it’s too soon tobespeculating,”hesaid.“Go on, please go on. I

need something specific. Itwouldmakemefeelbetter.”“O.K., in that case there’s

atleastonereassuringthingIcantellyou.”“Andwhat’sthat?”“Hiswalk.Themanwalks

like a junkie – like a guywho’s just taken a load of

speed. There’s somethingcocky and stilted about thewayhemoves,andofcoursethatcouldbea sign thathe’sjust an ordinary druggie andpettythief.Ontheotherhand…”“Yes?”“He’sdoneaverygoodjob

of hiding his face and then…”Anderbergfellsilentagain.“Keepgoing!”

“Onemoment.”“You’re making me

nervous,youknowthat?”“Don’t mean to. But you

know…”Balderfroze.Thesoundof

a car engine could be heardfromhisgaragedrive.“… you’re getting a

visitor.”“WhatshouldIdo?”“Staywhereyouare.”

“O.K.,” Balder said, moreorlessparalysed.ButhewasnotwhereAnderberg thoughthewas.

When the telephone rang at1.58, Blomkvist was stillawake.Buthismobilewasinthepocketofhisjeansonthefloor and he did not manageto answer it in time. In anycase the call was from a

withheldnumber,sohesworeand crawled back into bedandclosedhiseyes.Hecouldreallydowithout

another sleepless night. EversinceBergerhadfallenasleepa little before midnight, hehad been tossing and turningand thinking about his life.Notmuchof it felt right,noteven his relationship toBerger.Hehad lovedher formany years, and there was

everyreasontothinkthatshefelt the samewayabouthim.But it was no longer assimple as once it had been.Perhaps Blomkvist hadstartedtofeelsomesympathyfor Greger. Greger Beckmanwas Erika’s husband, anartist, and he could notreasonably be accused ofbeing grudging or small-minded. On the contrary,whenGregerhadrealizedthat

Erika would never get overBlomkvistorevenbeable tostop herself from tearing hisclothes off every now andthen, he had not lost histemper.Hehadmadeadeal:“You can be with him –

just so long as you alwayscomebacktome.”Andthat’showitbecame.They set up an

unconventional arrangement,with Berger mostly sleeping

at homewith her husband inSaltsjöbaden, but sometimeshere with Blomkvist atBellmansgatan. Over theyears Blomkvist had thoughtthat it really was an idealsolution, one which manycouples who lived under thedictatorship of monogamyoughttohaveadopted.EverytimeBerger said, “I lovemyhusband more when I canalsobewithyou,”orwhenat

somecocktailpartyBeckmanput his arm around him in abrotherlyembrace,Blomkvisthad thanked his lucky starsforthearrangement.Yethehad latelybegun to

havedoubts,perhapsbecausehehadhadmoretimetothinkand it had occurred to himthat something that is calledan agreement is notnecessarilyalwaysthat.

On the contrary, one partymight advance their self-interest under the guise of acommon decision, and in thelong run it often becomesclear that someone issuffering, despite assurancesto the contrary. Berger’s callto her husband that eveninghad evidently not been wellreceived. Who knows?Maybe Beckman was alsolyingawakerightnow.

Blomkvist tried to put itout of his mind. For a littlewhile he even trieddaydreaming.Butthatdidnothelpmuch,andin theendhegot up, determined to dosomethingmore useful.Whynot do some reading onindustrialespionageor,betterstill,sketchoutanalternativefundingplanforMillennium?He got dressed, sat down at

hiscomputerandcheckedhisinbox.Most of it was rubbish as

usual, even if some of theemailsdidgivehimabitofaboost. There were shouts ofencouragement from Malmand Eriksson, also fromAndrei Zander and HarrietVanger in the light of thecoming battle with Serner,and he answered them withmoreofa fightingspirit than

heactually felt.After thathechecked Salander’sdocument, without expectingto find anything there. Butthen he lit up. She hadanswered.Forthefirsttimeinages she had given a sign oflife:

<Balder’s intelligence isn’t inthe least bit artificial. How’syour own these days?And what happens,Blomkvist, if we create amachine which is a little bitcleverer than we are?>

Blomkvist smiled andthought of the last time theyhad met, at Kaffebar on StPaulsgatan. It took a whilebefore he noticed that hermessage contained twoquestions, the first one afriendly little jibe whichperhaps regrettably containedagrainof truth.Whathehadwritteninthemagazinelatelyhad lacked intelligence andgenuine newsworthiness.

Like so many journalists, hehad justbeenpluggingaway,occasionally trotting outclichés.Butthat’showitwasfor the moment and he wasmuch keener to ponderSalander’s second question,her riddle, not so muchbecause in itself it interestedhim especially, but becausehe wanted to think of somecleverresponse.

Ifwecreateamachinethatis cleverer thanweourselvesare, he thought, whathappensthen?Hewenttothekitchen, opened a bottle ofRamlösa mineral water andsat at the kitchen table.Downstairs Fru Gerner wascoughingratherpainfullyandin the distance, amid thehubbub of the city, anambulance wailed away inthe storm. Well, he mused,

then we get a machine thatcan do all the clever thingswhich we ourselves can do,plus a little bit more, forexample … He laughed outloudandunderstoodthepointof the question. A machinelike that could go on toproduce something moreintelligent than itself in turn,andthenwhathappens?Thesamewouldbetrueof

thenextmachineandthenext

one and the next one, andsoontheverysourceofitall,man himself, would be nomore interesting to the latestcomputerthanalabrat.Therewould be an explosion ofintelligence beyond allcontrol, as in the Matrixfilms. Blomkvist smiled andwent back to his computerandwrote:

<If we create such amachine then we’ll get a

world where not evenLisbeth is so cocksure.>After that he sat looking

outthroughthewindow,insofarasonecouldseeanythingbeyond the swirling snow.Every now and then helookedthroughtheopendoorat Berger, who was sleepingsoundly and who knewnothingaboutmachinesmoreintelligent than humanbeings, or was not the least

bitconcernedaboutthatrightnow.He thought he heard his

mobile give a ping, and sureenough he had a newvoicemail. Thatworried him,he was not really sure why.Apart from ex-girlfriendswho callwhen they’re drunkand want to have sex, yougenerally only get bad newsat night. The voice on themessagesoundedharried:

My name is Frans Balder. Iknowit’srudetocallthislate.I apologize for that. But mysituation has becomesomewhat critical, at leastthat’s how I see it. I’ve justdiscovered that you werelookingforme,whichisreallya strange coincidence. Thereare a few things I’ve beenwanting to tell you about forsome time now, I think theymight interest you. I’d begrateful if you could get intouch as soon as possible. Ihave a feeling that this mightbeabiturgent.

Balder left a telephonenumberandanemailaddressand Blomkvist jotted themdownandsatstillforawhile,drumming his fingers on thekitchentable.Thenhedialledthenumber.

Balder was lying in bed,agitated and scared. Yet hewas feeling a little calmernow. The car coming up his

drive had been the policeguard arriving at long last.Twomenintheirforties,onetall and one quite short, bothlooking cocky and with thesame short, trendy haircut.Buttheywereperfectlypoliteand apologized for the delayintakinguptheirpost.“Milton Security and

Gabriella Grane at theSecurity Police briefed us onthesituation,”onesaid.

They were aware that aman wearing a cap and darkglasses had been snoopingaround the property and thattheyhadtobeontheirguard.Therefore they turned downtheofferofacupofhotteainthe kitchen. They wanted tocheck out the house andBalder thought that soundedperfectly professional andsensible. In other respectsthey did not make a very

positive impression, but thenhe did not get anoverwhelmingly negativeimpressioneither.Hehadputtheirnumbersintohismobileand gone back to bed to bewith August, who wassleeping,curledup,hisgreenearplugsstillinplace.But of course Balder had

not been able to fall asleepagain. He was listening fornoises out there in the storm

and eventually he sat up inbed.Hehadtodosomething,or he would go mad. Hechecked his mobile. He hadtwo messages from LinusBrandell, who sounded bad-temperedanddefensiveallatthesametime.AtfirstBalderfeltlikehangingup.Butthenhe caught a couple of thingswhich were interesting afterall. Linus had spoken toMikael Blomkvist at

Millennium magazine andnowBlomkvistwantedtogetin touch, and at that Balderbegan to think. MikaelBlomkvist,hemuttered.Ishetobemylinkwiththe

outsideworld?Balder knew very little

about Swedish journalists.But he did know whoBlomkvist was, and wasaware of his reputation assomeone who always went

right to the heart of hisstories, never yielding topressure.Thatinitselfdidnotnecessarily make him therightman for the job – plus,somehow Balder seemed torecall hearing other lessflatteringthings–sohecalledGabriella Grane again. Sheknew just about everythingthere was to know about themediasceneandhadsaidthatshewouldbestayinguplate.

“Hello,” she answeredright away. “I was about togetintouch.I’mjustlookingat that man on the C.C.T.V.Wereallyoughttomoveyounow,youknow.”“But my God, Gabriella,

the police are here – finally.They’re sitting right outsidethefrontdoor.”“There’s no reason to

suppose that the man willcomethroughthefrontdoor.”

“Why would he come atall? The man at Milton saidhelookedlikeanoldjunkie.”“I’mnotsosureaboutthat.

He’s carrying some sort ofbox,somethingtechnical.Weshouldplaythissafe.”Balder glanced at August

lyingnexttohim.“I’m quite happy to move

tomorrow. That might helpmynerves.ButI’mnotgoinganywhere tonight – your

policemenseemprofessional,professional enough at anyrate.”“If you’re going to be

stubbornaboutthisI’llseetoitthatFlinckandBlommakethemselves conspicuous andcovertheentireproperty.”“Fine, but that’s not why

I’mcalling.YousaidIoughttogopublic,remember?”“Well…yes…That’snot

thekindofadviceyouwould

expect from the SecurityPolice, is it? I still think itwould be a good idea, butfirst I’d like you to tell uswhatyouknow.I’mfeelingalittle apprehensive about thisstory.”“In that case let’s talk

tomorrow morning, whenwe’ve had a good sleep. Butone thing,whatdoyou thinkof Mikael Blomkvist atMillennium?Couldhebe the

right sort of person to talkto?”Grane gave a laugh. “If

you want my colleagues tohave an apoplectic fit, thendefinitelytalktohim.”“Isitasbadasthat?”“AtSäpopeopleavoidhim

like the plague. If you findBlomkvist on your doorstep,then you know your wholeyear is shot, they say.Everybody here, including

Helena Kraft, would adviseagainst it in the strongestterms.”“Butit’syouI’masking.”“Well, my answer is that

yourreasoningissound.He’sadamnfinejournalist.”“Hasn’thealsocomeinfor

somecriticism?”“For sure, people have

beensayingthathe’spasthisprime and that his writingisn’t positive or upbeat

enough,orwhatever.Buthe’sanold-fashionedinvestigativereporterofthehighestcalibre.Do you have his contactdetails?”“My ex-assistant gave

themtome.”“Good, great. But before

you get in touch with him,you must first tell us whatyouhave.Doyoupromise?”“Ipromise,Gabriella.Now

I’m going to sleep for a few

hours.”“Do that, and I’ll keep in

touch with Flinck and Blomand arrange a safe house foryou first thing in themorning.”After he had hung up he

tried again to get some rest.But it proved as impossiblethistimeasbefore.Thestormmade him increasinglyrestlessandworried.Itfeltasif something evil was

travelling across the seatowards him, and he couldnot help listening anxiouslyforanyunusualsounds.It was true that he had

promised Grane he wouldtalktoherfirst.Buthecouldnotwait – everything he hadkept bottled up for so longwas throbbing to get out.Heknew it was irrational;nothing could be that urgent.Itwasthemiddleofthenight

and,regardlessofwhatGranehad said, he was by anyreckoning safer than he hadbeen fora long time.Hehadpolice protection and a first-rate security system.But thatdidnothelp.Hewasagitated,andsohegotoutthenumberLinus had given him anddialled it. But of courseBlomkvistdidnotanswer.Whywould he? Itwas far

too late, and Balder left a

voice message instead in aslightly forced, whisperedvoice so as not to wakeAugust. Then he got up andput on his bedside light. Onthebookshelfbythebedtherewas some literature whichhad nothing to do with hiswork, and both absent-minded and worried heflicked through an old novelby Stephen King, PetSematary.But thatmadehim

think even more about evilfigures travelling through thenight.Foralongtimehejuststood there with the book inhishand– thenhefeltastabof apprehension, which hemight have dismissed asnonsense in broad daylightbutwhichnowseemedtotallyplausible. He had a suddenurge to speak to Farah orbetter still StevenWarburtonin Los Angeles, who would

be certain to be awake, andwhile imagining all sorts ofunpleasant scenarios, helooked out to sea and thenight and the restless cloudsscudding across the sky. Atthatmomenthismobilerang,as if it had heard his prayer.But it was neither Farah norWarburton.“My name is Mikael

Blomkvist,” the voice said.

“You’ve been looking forme.”“That’s right. I’m sorry to

havecalledsolate.”“Noproblem.Iwasawake

anyway.”“Canyoutalknow?”“Absolutely, I was in fact

just answering a messagefrom a person whom I thinkwe both know. LisbethSalander.”“Who?”

“Sorry, maybe I’ve gotholdof thewrongendof thestick.Ithoughtyouhadhiredher to go through yourcomputers and trace asuspecteddatabreach.”Balder laughed. “Yes, my

God,she’sastrangegirl,thatone,”hesaid.“Butshenevertold me her surname, eventhough we had a lot ofcontactforawhile.Iassumedshe had her reasons, and I

neverpushedher.Imetheratone of my lectures at theRoyal Institute ofTechnology. I’d be happy totellyouaboutit;itwasprettyastonishing.ButwhatImeantto ask was … well, you’llprobably think it’s a crazyidea.”“Sometimes I like crazy

ideas.”“You wouldn’t feel like

coming over right now? It

wouldmeana lot tome. I’msitting on a story which Ithink is pretty explosive. Icanpayforyourtaxihereandback.”“Thanks,butIalwayspick

upmyowntab.Tellme,whydowehavetotalknow,inthemiddleofthenight?”“Because …” Balder

hesitated. “Because I have afeeling this is urgent, oractually it’s more than a

feeling. I’ve just been toldthat I’m under threat, and anhour or so ago someonewassnooping around myproperty. I’m frightened, tobe completely honest, and Iwant to get this informationoffmychest.Inolongerwantto be the only one in theknow.”“O.K.”“O.K.what?”

“I’ll come – if I canmanagetogetholdofataxi.”Balder gave him the

address and hung up, thencalledProfessorWarburtoninLos Angeles, and had anintenseconversationwithhimonanencryptedlineforaboutthirty minutes. Then he putonapairofjeansandablackcashmerepoloneckandwentin search of a bottle ofAmarone,incasethatwasthe

kind of thing Blomkvistmight enjoy. But he got nofurther than the doorwaybeforehestartedinfright.He thought he had seen a

movement, somethingflashing past, and lookedanxiously towards the jettyand the sea. But it was thesame desolate, storm-lashedscene as before, and hedismissedwhatever itwas asa figment of his imagination,

a product of his nervousframe ofmind, or at least hetried to.He left the bedroomand walked past the largewindow on his way towardsthe upper floor. Suddenlygripped by a new fear, hespun around again and thistime he really did glimpsesomething over by the housenextdoor.A figure was racing along

intheshelterofthetrees,and

evenifBalderdidnotseethepersonformorethanamatterof seconds, he could makeout that it was a powerfullybuiltmanwitharucksackanddark clothes.Theman ran inacrouchandsomethingaboutthe way he moved had atrainedlooktoit,asifhehadrun like that many timesbefore, perhaps in a distantwar. It took a few momentsfor Balder to fumble for his

mobile, and he tried toworkoutwhichof thenumbersonhis call list belonged to thepolicemenoutthere.Hehadnotputtheirnames

into his contacts, and nowwasuncertain.Withashakinghand he tried one which hethought was right. No-oneanswered, not at first. Theringtonesoundedthree,four,five times before a voice

panted out, “Blom here,what’sup?”“Isawamanrunningalong

the line of trees by myneighbour’s house. I don’tknow where he is now. Buthe could verywell be up bytheroadnearyou.”“O.K.,we’llcheckitout.”“He seemed …” Balder

said.“What?”“Idon’tknow,quick.”

Dan Flinck and Peter Blomwere sitting in the police carchatting about their youngcolleague, Anna Berzelius,andthesizeofherbum.Both had recently got

divorced. Their divorces hadbeen pretty painful at first.They both had youngchildren, wives who felt letdownandparents-in-lawwhoto varying degrees calledthem irresponsible shits. But

once thedusthadsettledandthey had got shared custodyof the children and new ifmodesthomes, theyhadbothbeen struck by the samerealization: that they missedtheir bachelor days. Lately,during the weeks when theywere not looking after thekids, they had lived it up asneverbefore.Afterwards,justlike when they were in theirteens, they had discussed all

the parties in detail,especially the women theyhad met, reviewing theirphysiquesfromtoptobottom,andtheirprowessinbed.Butonthisoccasiontheyhadnothad time to discuss AnnaBerzeliusinasmuchdepthastheywouldhaveliked.Blom’s mobile rang and

they both jumped, partlybecause he had changed hisringtone to an extreme

version of “Satisfaction”, butmainlyofcoursebecause thenight and the storm and theemptinessoutherehadmadethem edgy. Besides, Blomhad his telephone in hispocket,andsincehistrousersweretight–hiswaistlinehadexpandedasaresultofallthepartying – it took a whilebefore he could get it out.When he hung up he lookedworried.

“What’s that about?”Flincksaid.“Baldersawaman,aquick

bastard,apparently.”“Where?”“Downbythetreesnextto

the neighbour’s house. Theguy’sprobablyonhiswayuptowardsus.”Blom and Flinck stepped

outofthecar.Theyhadbeenoutside many times over thecourseof this longnight, but

this was the first time theyshivered right down to thebone.Foraninstant theyjuststood looking awkwardly totherightandtheleft,shockedbythecold.ThenBlom–thetaller of the two – tookcommand and told Flinck tostay up by the roadwhile hehimself went down towardsthewater.Itwas a short slopewhich

extended along a wooden

fence and a small avenue ofnewly planted trees.A lot ofsnow had fallen, it wasslipperyandatthebottomlaythe sea. Baggensfjärden,Blom thought, and in fact hewas surprised that the waterhad not frozen over, but thatmayhavebeenbecauseofthewaves. Blom cursed at thestorm and at this night dutywhich wore him out andruined his beauty sleep. He

tried to do his job all thesame, not with his wholeheartperhaps,butstill.He listened out for sounds

andlookedabouthim,andatfirst he could not pick outanything from thesurroundings. It was dark.Only the light from a singlelamp post shone into theproperty, immediately infrontofthejetty,andhewentdown, past a garden chair

which had been flung aboutin the storm, and in the nextmoment he could see Balderthrough the largewindowpane.Balder was standing some

way inside the house, bentoveralargebed,hisbodyinatensed position. Perhaps hewas straightening the covers,itwashardtotell.Heseemedbusy with some small detailin the bed. Blom should not

bebotheringaboutit–hewasmeant to be keeping watchover the property – yet therewas something in Balder’sbody language whichfascinated him and for asecond or two he lost hisconcentration before he wasbroughtbacktorealityagain.He had a chilling feeling

that someone was watchinghim,andhe spunaround,hiseyes searching wildly. He

sawnothing, not at first, andhad justbegun tocalmdownwhen he became aware oftwo things – a suddenmovement by the shiny steelbinsnexttothefence,andthesoundofacarupbytheroad.Theenginestoppedandacardoorwasopened.Neither occurrence was

noteworthy in itself. Therecould be an animal by therubbish bins and cars could

comeor go here even late atnight. Yet Blom’s bodystiffenedcompletelyandforamoment he just stood there,not knowing how to react.ThenFlinck’svoicecouldbeheard.“Someone’scoming!”Blomdidnotmove.Hefelt

that he was being watchedand almost unconsciously hefingered the service weaponat his hip and thought of his

mother and his ex-wife andhis children, as if somethingserious really was about tohappen. Flinck was shoutingagain, now with a desperatetone in his voice, “Police!You! Stop right there!” andthenBlomranuptowardstheroad,althoughitdidnotseemtheobviousoptioneventhen.He could not rid himself ofthe apprehension that hewasleaving something

threatening and unpleasantdown there by the steel bins.Butifhispartnershoutedlikethat,hedidnothaveachoice,did he? And he felt secretlyrelieved. He had been morefrightened than he cared toadmit and so he hurried offand came stumbling up ontotheroad.Up ahead, Flinck was

chasing after an unsteadyman with a broad back and

clothes thatwere far too thinand, even though he hardlyfitted the description of a“quick bastard”, Blom ranafter him. Soon afterwardstheybroughthimdownbythesideoftheditch,rightnexttoa coupleof letterboxes andasmall lantern which cast apale light over the wholescene.“Who the hell are you?”

Flinck bellowed with

surprising aggression – hehadbeenscaredtoo–andtheman looked at them inconfusionandterror.Hewas notwearing a hat,

he had hoarfrost in his hairandinthestubbleonhischinandyoucouldtellthathewascold and inprettybad shape.But above all there wassomething extraordinarilyfamiliarabouthisface.

For a few seconds Blomthoughtthattheyhadarrestedaknownandwantedcriminalandheswelledwithpride.

Balder had gone back to thebedroom and tucked Augustinagain,perhapstohidehimunder the blanket if anythingshouldhappen.Thenhehadacompletely crazy thought,prompted by the sense of

foreboding he had just felt,whichwasaccentuatedbyhisconversationwithWarburton.Probably his mind was justcloudedbypanicandfear.He realized it was not a

new idea but somethingwhichhadbeendevelopinginhissubconsciousduringmanysleeplessnightsinCalifornia.So he got out his laptop, hisown little supercomputerconnectedtoaseriesofother

machines for sufficientcapacity,andopened theA.I.program to which he haddedicatedhislife,andthen…He deleted the file and all

of the back-up. He barelythought it through. He waslikeanevilGodsnuffingouta life, and perhaps that wasexactly what he was doing.Nobody knew, not even hehimself,andhesatthereforalittle while, wondering if he

would be floored by remorseand regret. It wasincomprehensible, wasn’t it?His life’s work was gone,withjustafewtapsofakey.But oddly enough it made

himcalmer,as ifat leastoneaspect of his life was nowprotected. He got to his feetand once more looked outinto the night and the storm.Then the telephone rang. It

was Flinck, the secondpoliceman.“I just wanted to say that

weapprehendedthemanyousaw,”thepolicemansaid.“Inother words, you can relax.We have the situation undercontrol.”“Whoisit?”Baldersaid.“I couldn’t say. He’s very

drunkandwehavetogethimto quieten down. I just

wanted to let you know.We’llgetbacktoyou.”Balder put the mobile

down on the bedside table,nexttohislaptop,andtriedtocongratulate himself. Nowthemanwasunderarrest,andhis research would not fallinto thewronghands.Yethewasnotreassured.Atfirsthedidnotunderstandwhy.Thenit hit him: the man who had

run along the trees had beenanythingbutdrunk.

It tooka fullminuteormorebefore Blom realized thattheyhadnotinfactarrestedanotorious criminal but ratherthe actor Lasse Westman,who did often enough playbandits and hit men onscreen, but who was nothimselfwantedforanycrime.

The realization did notmakeBlom feel any calmer. Notjust because he suspected ithad been a mistake to leavethe area of the trees and thebins down there, but becausethiswholeepisodecouldleadto scandal and headlines inthepress.He knew enough about

Westman to be aware thatwhateverthatmandidalltoooftenendedupintheevening

papers,andyoucouldnotsaythat the actor was lookingparticularlyhappy.HepuffedandsworeashescrambledtogettohisfeetandBlomtriedtoworkoutwhatonearththemanwasdoingouthereinthemiddleofthenight.“Doyou live in the area?”

hesaid.“I don’t have to tell you a

fucking thing,” Westmanhissed, and Blom turned to

Flinck in an attempt tounderstand how the wholedramahadbegun.But Flinck was already

standing a little way offtalking into his mobile,apparently with Balder. Heprobablywantedtoshowhowefficienthewasbypassingonthenewsthattheyhadseizedthe suspect, if indeed hewasthesuspect.

“Have you been snoopingaround Professor Balder’sproperty?”Blomsaid.“Didn’t you hear what I

said? I’m not telling you afucking thing.What the hell,here I am strolling aroundperfectly peacefully andalong comes that maniacwaving his pistol. It’sscandalous. Don’t you knowwhoIam?”

“I knowwho you are, andifwehaveoverreactedthenIapologize. I’m sure we’llhaveachancetotalkaboutitagain.Butrightnowwe’reinthemiddleofatensesituationandIdemandthatyoutellmeat once what brought youheretoProfessorBalder–ohno,don’tyoutrytorunawaynow!”Westmanwasprobablynot

tryingtoescapeatall.Hewas

only having trouble keepinghis balance. Then he clearedhis throat rather dramaticallyandspatrightoutintotheair.The phlegm did not get farbutflewbacklikeaprojectileandfrozetoiceonhischeek.“Do you know

something?” he said, wipinghisface.“No?”“I’mnotthebadguyinthis

story.”

Blom looked nervouslydown towards the water andthe avenue of trees andwondered yet again what hehad seen there. And still heremained standing where hewas, paralysed by theabsurdityofthesituation.“Wellthen,whois?”“Balder.”“Howso?”“He’stakenmygirlfriend’s

son.”

“Whywouldhehavedonethat?”“You shouldn’t bloody

well be asking me! Ask thecomputer genius in there!That bastard has absolutelyno right to him,” Westmansaid, and fumbled in theinsidepocketofhiscoat.“Hedoesn’thaveachildin

the house, if that’swhat youthink,”Blomsaid.“Hesureashelldoes.”

“Really?”“Really!”“So you thought you’d

come along here in themiddleofthenight,pissedasa newt, and fetch the child,”Blomsaid, andhewas aboutto make another crushingcomment when he wasinterruptedbyasound,asoftclinking sound coming upfromthewater’sedge.“Whatwasthat?”hesaid.

“What was what?”answered Flinck, who wasstanding next to him and didnot seem to have heardanything at all. It was truethat the sound had not beenall that loud, at least not uphere.Yet it still made Blom

shudder.Hewasjustabouttogo down to investigatewhenhe hesitated again. As helooked around anxiously he

could hear another carapproaching.It was a taxi which drove

past and stopped at Balder’sfront door, and that gaveBlomanexcusetostayupontheroad.Whilethedriverandthe passenger settled up hecastyetanotherworried lookdown to the water andthought that he could hearsomething more, and this

sound was no morereassuring.He did not know for sure,

andnowthecardooropenedandamanclimbedoutwhomBlom, after a moment’sconfusion, recognized as thejournalist Mikael Blomkvist,though God only knew whythe hell all these celebritieshadtocongregateouthereinthemiddleofthenight.

CHAPTER10

21.xi,EarlyMorning

Balder was standing in thebedroomnexttohiscomputer

and his mobile, looking atAugust,whowaswhimperinguneasily in the bed. Hewondered what the boy wasdreaming. Was it about aworld which he could evenunderstand?Balderwantedtoknow.He felt thathewantedtostartliving,nolongerburyhimself in quantumalgorithms and source codesandparanoia.

Hewantedtobehappy,nottormented by that constantweightinhisbody;hewantedinsteadtolaunchhimselfintosomething wild andmagnificent,a romanceeven.Fora few intense secondshethought about the womenwho had fascinated him:Gabriella,Farah,otherstoo.He also thought about the

womanwhoitturnedoutwascalledSalander.Hehadbeen

spellbound by her, and as henow remembered her he sawsomething new in her,something both familiar andstrange:sheremindedhimofAugust. That was absurd, ofcourse. August was a smallautistic boy, and whileSalander was not that oldeither, and there may havebeen something boyish abouther, otherwise she was hispolar opposite. Dressed in

black,abitofapunk, totallyuncompromising. Still itoccurred tohimnowthathereyes had that same strangeshine as August’s when hehadbeenstaringatthetrafficlightonHornsgatan.Balder had encountered

Salander during a lecture atthe Royal Institute ofTechnologyinthecourseofatalk he was giving ontechnical singularity, the

hypothetical state whencomputers become moreintelligent than the humanbeing. He had just begun byexplaining the concept ofsingularity in terms ofmathematics and physicswhen the door opened and askinny girl in black strodeinto the lecturehall.His firstthought was that it was ashame there was no otherplace for junkies togo.Then

hewonderedif thegirlreallywas an addict. She did notseem strung out, but on theotherhand shedid look tiredandsurly,anddidnotappearto be paying any attention tohis lecture. She just sat thereslouched over a desk.Eventually,inthemiddleofadiscussion of the moment ofsingularity in complexmathematical calculation, thepoint where the solution hits

infinity,heaskedherstraightoutwhatshethoughtofitall.That wasmean.Why shouldhepickonher?Butwhathadhappened?Thegirllookedupandsaid

that, instead of bandyingfuzzy concepts about, heshould become scepticalwhen the basis for hiscalculations fell apart. Itwasnot some sort of real-worldphysicalcollapse,moreasign

that his own mathematicswere not up to scratch, andtherefore it was sheerpopulism on his part tomystify singularities in blackholeswhenitwassoobviousthatthemainproblemwastheabsence of a quantummechanical method forcalculatinggravity.Withicyclarity–whichset

off a buzz in the hall – shethen presented a sweeping

critique of the singularitytheorists he had quoted, andhe was incapable of comingupwithanyanswerotherthana dismayed: “Who the hellareyou?”Thatwastheirfirstcontact.

Thegirlwastosurprisehimafew times more after that.With lightning speed or justone bright glance sheimmediatelygraspedwhathewasworkingonand,whenhe

realized that his technologyhadbeenstolen,hehadaskedforherhelp.Thathadcreateda bond between them – theysharedasecret.Nowhewasstandingthere

in the bedroom thinking ofher. But his thoughts wereinterrupted.Hewasovercomeby a new chilling sense ofuneaseandhelookedthroughthe doorway towards the

largewindowoverlookingthewater.In front of it stood a tall

figure in dark clothes and atight black cap with a smalllamponhisforehead.Hewasdoing something to thewindow. He pulled across itwith a swift and powerfulmovement, like an artiststarting work on a freshcanvas,andbeforeBalderhadtime to cry out, the entire

windowfell inandthefiguremovedtowardshim.

Jan Holtser usually toldpeople that he worked onindustrial security issues. Inactual fact he was a formerRussianspecialforcessoldierwho spent his time breakingintosecuritysystems.Hehada small skilled staff and, foroperations like this one, the

preparationswereasarulesopainstaking that the riskswere not as great as onemightimagine.It’s true that he was no

longer a young man, but forfifty-one he kept himself ingoodshapewithhardtrainingand was known for hisefficiency and ability toimprovise. If freshcircumstancescroppedup,hethought about them and took

themintoconsiderationinhisplanning.His experience tended to

make up for his lack ofyouthful vigour, andoccasionally, in the limitedcircle within which he couldtalk openly, he would speakof a sort of sixth sense, anacquired instinct. He hadlearned over the years whento wait and when to strike,and although he had been

throughabadpatchacoupleof years earlier and betrayedsigns of weakness –humanity,hisdaughterwouldsay–henowfeltthathewasmoreaccomplished thaneverbefore.Hewas oncemore able to

takepleasureinhiswork,thatoldsenseofexcitement.Yes,hedidstilldosehimselfwithten milligrams of Stesolidbefore an operation, but that

wasonlybecauseitenhancedhis accuracy with weapons.Heremainedcrystalclearandalert at criticalmoments, andmost important: he alwayscarried out the tasks he wasassigned. Holtser was notsomeone who let peopledownorbailedout.Thatwashowhethoughtofhimself.And yet tonight, even

thoughhisclienthadstressedthat the job was urgent, he

had considered calling it off.Thebadweatherwasafactor.But the storm in itselfwouldnever have been enough toget him to considercancelling. He was Russianandasoldier,andhadfoughtin far worse conditions thanthese, and he hated peoplewho moaned about trivialthings.Whatbotheredhimwasthe

police guard, which had

appearedout of nowhere.Hedid not think much of thepolicemen on the property.Fromhishidingplacehehadseen them snooping aroundwith the vague reluctance ofsmallboys told togooutsidein bad weather. They wouldrather have stayed sitting intheir car talking rubbish, andthey were easily frightened,especially the taller of thetwo, who seemed to dislike

the dark and the storm andthe blackwater.As he stoodthere staring in among thetreesalittlewhileago,hehadlooked to be terrified,presumably because he hadsensed Holtser’s presence,but that was not somethingthat worried Holtser. Hecould have slit the man’sthroat swiftly andsoundlessly.

Still, the factofpolicemenwasnotgoodnews.Their presence

considerably raised the levelof risk; above all it was anindication that some part ofthe plan had leaked out, thatthere was a heightenedreadiness. Maybe theprofessor had started to talk,in which case the operationwould be meaningless, itmight even make their

situation worse. Holtser wasdetermined not to expose hisclient to any unnecessaryrisks.Heregardedthatasoneof his strengths. He alwayssaw the bigger picture and,despitehisprofession,hewasoftentheonewhocounselledcaution.He had lost count of the

number of criminal gangs inhis home country which hadgone under because they had

resortedtoooftentoviolence.Violence can commandrespect.Violence can silenceand intimidate, and ward offrisksandthreats.Butviolencecan also cause chaos and awhole chain of unwantedconsequences.All those thoughts had

gone through hismind as hesat hidden behind the treesandthelineofbins.Forafewseconds he was resolved to

abort the operation and goback to his hotel room. Yetthatdidnothappen.A car arrived, occupying

thepolicemen’sattention,andhe spottedanopportunity, anopening.Without stopping toevaluate his motivations hefitted the elastic of the lampoverhishead.Hegotout thediamond saw from his left-hand jacket pocket and drewhisweapon,a1911R1Carry

witha custom-made silencer,and weighed them, one ineach hand. Then, as ever, hesaid:“Thywillbedone,amen.”Yethecouldnotshakeoff

the uncertainty. Was thisright? He would have to actwithlightningspeed.True,heknewthehouseinsideoutandJurijhadbeenheretwiceandhackedthealarmsystem.Plusthe policemen were hopeless

amateurs. Even if he weredelayed in there – say theprofessor did not have hiscomputer next to his bed, aseveryone had said, and theyhadtimetocometohisaid–Holtser would be able todispose of them too withoutanyproblem.Heevenlookedforward to it. He thereforemutteredasecondtime:“Thywillbedone,amen.”

Then he disengaged thesafety on his weapon andmoved rapidly to the largewindow overlooking thewater. It may have been dueto the uncertainty of thesituation, but he felt anunusually strong reactionwhenhesawBalderstandingthere in the bedroom,engrossed in something, andhe tried to persuade himselfthateverythingwasfine.The

targetwasclearlyvisible.Yethe still felt apprehensive:Shouldhecallthejoboff?He did not. Instead he

tensedthemusclesinhisrightarm andwith all his strengthdrew the diamond cutteracross the window andpushed. The windowcollapsed with a disturbingcrash and he rushed in andraised his weapon at Balder,whowasstaringhardathim,

wavinghishandasthoughina desperate greeting. Theprofessor began to saysomething confused andceremonious which soundedlike a prayer, a litany. Butinstead of “God” or “Jesus”Holtser heard the word“disabled”. That was all hemanagedtocatch,andinanycaseitdidnotmatter.Peoplehadsaidallsortsof things tohim.

Heshowednomercy.

Quickly and almostsoundlessly the figuremovedthrough the hallway into thebedroom. In that timeBalderregistered with surprise thatthe alarm had not gone offandnoticedamotifofagreyspider on the man’s jersey,alsoanarrow,oblongscaron

his pale forehead below thecapandthelamp.Then he saw the weapon.

Themanwaspointingapistolathim.Balderraisedhishandin a vain attempt to protecthimself.But even though hislife was on the line and fearhad set its claws intohimhethought only of August.Whatever else happened,evenifhehimselfhadtodie,

lethissonbespared.Heburstout:“Don’tkillmychild!He’s

disabled, he doesn’tunderstandanything.”Balder did not know how

far he got. The whole worldfroze and the night and thestorm seemed to bear downon him and then everythingwentblack.

Holtser fired and as he hadexpected there was nothingwrong with his aim. He hitBalder twice in the head andtheprofessorcollapsedtothefloor like a flappingscarecrow. There was nodoubt that he was dead. Yetsomething did not feel right.Ablusterywind swept inoffthe sea and brushed acrossHoltser’sneckas if itwereacold, living being, and for a

secondortwohehadnoideawhatwashappening.Everything had gone

according to plan and overtherewasBalder’s computer,just as he had been told. Heshouldjusttakeitandgo.Heneededtobeefficient.Yethestoodthereasiffrozentothespot and it was only after astrangely long delay that herealizedwhy.

In the large double bed,almost completely hidden byaduvet, layasmallboywithunruly, tousledhairwatchinghimwithaglassylook.Thoseeyes made himuncomfortable, and that wasnot justbecause they seemedtobelookingstraightthroughhim. There was more to itthan that. But then again itmadenodifference.

He had to carry out hisassignment.Nothingmust beallowed to jeopardize theoperationandexposethemallto risk. Here was someonewho was clearly a witness,especially now that he hadexposed his face, and theremust be no witnesses, so hepointedhisweaponattheboyand looked into his glowingeyes and for the third timemuttered:

“Thywillbedone,amen.”

Blomkvistclimbedoutofthetaxi in a pair of black bootsand a white fur coat with abroadsheepskincollar,whichhe had dug out of thecupboard, as well as an oldfur hat that had belonged tohisfather.It was then 2.40 in the

morning. The Ekot news

bulletin had reported aserious accident involving anarticulated lorry which wasnow blocking the mainVärmdö road.ButBlomkvistand the taxi driver had seennothing of that and hadtravelledtogetherthroughthedark, storm-battered suburbs.Blomkvist was sick withexhaustion. All he hadwanted was to stay at home

andcreepintobedwithErikaagainandgobacktosleep.Buthehadnot felt able to

say no to Balder. He couldnot understandwhy. Itmighthave been out of some senseof duty, a feeling that hecould not allow himself anyeasy options now that themagazinewasfacingacrisis,or it might have been thatBalder had sounded lonelyand frightened, and that

Blomkvist was bothsympathetic andcurious.Notthathe thoughthewasgoingto hear anything sensational.Hewascoldlyexpectingtobedisappointed. Maybe hewouldfindhimselfactingasatherapist,anightwatchmaninthestorm.Ontheotherhand,one never knew, and onceagainhethoughtofSalander.Salander rarely did anythingwithoutgoodreason.Besides,

Balder was a fascinatingfigure, and he had neverbefore given an interview. Itcould well turn out to beinteresting, Blomkvistthought, as he looked abouthiminthedarkness.A lamp post cast a bluish

light over the house, and anice house it was too,architect-designed with largeglass windows, and built tolook a little like a train.

Standingbytheletterboxwasatallpolicemaninhisforties,with a fading tan andsomewhat strained, nervousfeatures. Further down theroad was a shorter colleagueof his, arguing with a drunkwho was waving his armsabout. More was happeningout here than Blomkvist hadexpected.“What’sgoingon?”hesaid

tothetallerpoliceman.

He never got an answer.Thepoliceman’smobile rangandBlomkvistoverheardthatthe alarm system did notseemtobeworkingproperly.There was a noise comingfrom the lower part of theproperty, a crackling,unnerving sound, whichinstinctively he associatedwith the telephone call. Hetook a couple of steps to theright and looked down a hill

whichstretchedallthewaytoa jetty and the sea andanother lamp post with thesamebluish light. Just thenafigure came charging out ofnowhere and Blomkvistrealized that something wasbadlywrong.

Holtser squeezed the firstpressure on the trigger andwas just about to shoot the

boywhen the sound of a carcould be heard up by theroad,andhecheckedhimself.But itwas not really the car.It was because of the word“disabled”which cropped upagain in his thoughts. Herealized that the professorwouldhavehadeveryreasonto lie in that last moment ofhis life, but as Holtser nowstared at the child he

wondered if it might not infactbetrue.The boy’s body was too

immobile, and his faceradiated wonder rather thanfear, as if he had nounderstanding of what washappening. His lookwas tooblank and glassy to registeranythingproperly.Holtser recalled something

he had read during hisresearch. Balder did have a

severely retarded son. Boththepressandthecourtpapershadsaidthattheprofessordidnot have custody of the boy.But this must surely be theboyandHoltserneithercouldnor needed to shoot him. Itwould be pointless and abreach of his ownprofessional ethics, and thisrecognitioncame tohimasahuge relief, which shouldhave made him suspicious

had he been more aware ofhimselfatthatmoment.Now he just lowered the

pistol, picked up thecomputer and the mobilefrom the bedside table andstuffed them into hisrucksack. Then he ran intothe night along the escaperoute he had staked out forhimself. But he did not getfar.He heard a voice behindhimandturnedaround.Upby

the road stood a man whowas neither of the policemenbutanewfigureinafurcoatand fur hat and with quite adifferent aura of authority.PerhapsthiswaswhyHoltserraised his pistol again. Hesenseddanger.

The man who charged pastwas athletic and dressed inblack,withaheadlamponhis

cap, and in some wayBlomkvist could not quiteexplainhehadthefeelingthatthe figure was part of acoordinated operation. Hehalfexpectedmorefigurestoappear out of the darkness,and that made him veryuncomfortable.Hecalledout,“Hey,you,stop!”That was a mistake.

Blomkvist understood it theinstant the man’s body

stiffened,likethatofasoldierin combat, and that wasdoubtless why he reacted soquickly.Bythetimethemandrew a weapon and fired ashot as if it were the mostnatural thing in the world,Blomkvist had alreadyduckeddownbythecornerofthe house. The shot couldhardly be heard, but whensomething smacked intoBalder’s letterbox there was

nodoubtwhathadhappened.The taller of the policemenabruptly ended his call, butdid not move a muscle. Theonly person who saidanythingwasthedrunk.“What the fuck’sgoingon

here?What’shappening?”heroared in a voice whichsounded oddly familiar, andonly then did the policemenstart talking to each other innervous,lowtones:

“Issomeoneshooting?”“Ithinkso.”“Whatshouldwedo?”“Callforreinforcements.”“Buthe’sgettingaway.”“Then we’d better take a

look,”thetalleronesaid,andwith slow, hesitantmovements, they drew theirweapons and went down tothewater.A dog could be heard

barking in the winter

darkness, a small, bad-tempered dog, and the windwas blowing hard from thesea. The snow was whirlingabout and the ground wasslippery. The shorter of thetwo policemen nearly fellover, and started flailing hisarmslikeaclown.Withabitof luck they might avoidrunningintothemanwiththeweapon. Blomkvist sensedthatthefigurewouldhaveno

troubleatall ingettingridofthose two. The quick andefficientwayinwhichhehadturnedandraisedhisweaponsuggestedthathewastrainedfor situations like this, andBlomkvistwonderedwhathehimselfshoulddo.Hehadnothingwithwhich

todefendhimself.Yethegotto his feet, brushed the snowfrom his coat and lookeddown the slope again. The

policemenwereworkingtheirway along the water’s edgetowards the neighbour’shouse. There was no sign ofthe black-clad man with thegun.Blomkvistmadehiswaydown too, and as he camearound to the front of thehouse he saw that a windowhadbeensmashedin.There was a large gaping

hole in the house and hewondered if he should

summon the policemen. Henever got that far. He heardsomething, a strange, lowwhimperingsound,andsohestepped through the shatteredwindowintoacorridorwithafine oak floor whose paleglow could be seen in thedarkness. He walked slowlytowardsadoorwaywherethesoundwascomingfrom.“Balder,” he called out,

“it’s me, Mikael Blomkvist.

Iseverythingalright?”There was no answer. But

thewhimpering grew louder.He took a deep breath,walked into the room – andfroze, paralysed with shock.Afterwards he could not saywhat he had noticed first, orevenwhathadfrightenedhimmost. It was not necessarilythebodyonthefloor,despitethebloodandtheempty,rigidexpressiononitsface.

It could have been thesceneonthelargedoublebednext toBalder, though itwasdifficult to make sense of it.There was a small child,perhaps seven, eight yearsold, a boy with fine featuresand dishevelled, dark-blondehair, wearing blue-checkedpyjamas, who was banginghis body against theheadboard and the wall,methodically and with force.

The boy’s wailing did notsound like that of a cryingchild, more like someonetryingtohurthimselfasmuchas he could. BeforeBlomkvist had time to thinkstraight he hurried over tohim,but theboywaskickingwildly.“There,” Blomkvist said.

“There, there,” and wrappedhisarmsaroundhim.

Theboytwistedandturnedwithastonishing strengthandmanaged – possibly becauseBlomkvist did not want toholdhimtoo tightly– to tearhimselffromhisembraceandrushthroughthedooroutintothecorridor,barefootovertheglass shards towards theshattered window, withBlomkvist racing after himshouting“No,no.”

Thatwaswhenheran intothe two policemen. Theywerestandingoutinthesnowwith expressions of totalbewilderment.

CHAPTER11

21.xi

Afterwards it was said thatthepolicehadaproblemwith

their procedures, and thatnothing had been done tocordon off the area until itwas too late. The man whoshot Professor Balder musthave had all the time in theworld to make good hisescape, and the firstpolicemen on the scene,Detectives Blom and Flinck,knownratherscornfullyatthestation as “the Casanovas”,had taken their time before

raising the alarm, or at leasthad not done so with thenecessary urgency orauthority.The forensic technicians

and investigators from theViolent Crimes Divisionarrived only at 3.40, at thesametimeasayoungwomanwho introduced herself asGabriellaGraneandwhowasassumed to be a relativebecause she was so upset.

Later they came tounderstand that she was ananalyst from Säpo, sent bythe chief of that agencyherself. That did not helpGrane; thanks to thecollective misogyny withinthe force, or possibly tounderline the fact that shewas regarded as an outsider,she was given the task oftakingcareofthechild.

“You look as if you knowhow to handle this sort ofthing,” Erik Zetterlund said.Hewastheleaderofthedutyinvestigating team that night.He had watched Granebending to examine the cutsin the boy’s feet, and eventhough she snapped at himand declared that she hadother priorities, she gave inwhen she looked into theboy’seyes.

August – as hewas called– was paralysed by fear andfor a long timehe sat on thefloor at the top of the house,wrapped in a duvet,mechanically moving hishand across a red Persiancarpet. Blom, who in otherrespectshadnotprovedtobeveryenterprising,managedtofind a pair of socks and putstickingplasterson theboy’sfeet.Theynoticedtoothathe

hadbruises all overhisbodyand a split lip. According tothe journalist MikaelBlomkvist – whose presencecreated a palpablenervousness in the house –the boy had been throwinghimself against the bed andthe wall downstairs and hadrun in bare feet across thebroken glass on the groundfloor.

Grane, who for somereason was reluctant tointroduce herself toBlomkvist, realized at oncethat August was a witness,but she was not able toestablish any sort of rapportwithhim,norwassheabletogive him comfort. Hugs andtenderness of the usual kindwere clearly not the rightapproach. August was at hiscalmest when Grane simply

sat beside him, a little wayaway, doing her own thing,and only once did he appearto be paying attention. Thiswas when she was speakingon her mobile to Kraft andreferredtothehousenumber,79.Shedidnot give itmuchthoughtat thetime,andsoonafter that she reached anagitatedHannaBalder.Hanna wanted to have her

son back at once and told

Grane, to her surprise, thatshe should get out somejigsaw puzzles, particularlythe one of thewarshipVasa,which she said the boy’sfather would have had lyingaround somewhere. She didnot describe her ex-husbandas having taken the boyunlawfully, but she had noanswer when asked whyWestmanhadbeenoutat thehousedemanding tohave the

boyback. It certainlydidnotseem to be concern for thechild that had brought himhere.The fact of the boy’s

presence did, however, shedlight on some of Grane’searlier questions. She nowunderstood why Balder hadbeen evasive about certainthings, and why he had notwanted to have a guard dog.In the early morning Grane

arranged for a psychologistandadoctortotakeAugusttohis mother in Vasastan,unless it turned out that heneeded more urgent medicalattention. Then she wasstruckbyadifferentthought.It occurred to her that the

motive formurdermight nothave been to silence Balder.The killer could as easilyhavebeenwantingtorobhim–notofsomethingasobvious

asmoney,butofhisresearch.Grane had no idea whatBalder had been working onduringthelastyearofhislife.Perhaps no-one knew. But itwas not difficult to imaginewhatitmighthavebeen:mostprobably a development ofhis A.I. program, which wasalready regarded asrevolutionary when it wasstolenthefirsttime.

His colleagues at Solifonhad done everything theycould to get a look at it andaccordingtowhatBalderhadonceletslipheguardeditasamother guards her baby,which must mean, Granethought,thathekeptitnexttohimwhile hewas asleep. SoshetoldBlomtokeepaneyeonAugustandwentdown tothe bedroom on the groundfloor where, in freezing

conditions, the forensic teamwereworking.“Was there a computer in

here?”shesaid.Thetechniciansshooktheir

heads and Grane got out hermobile and called Kraftagain.

It was soon established thatWestman had disappeared.He must have left the scene

amidthegeneralturmoil,andthat made Zetterlund swearand shout, themore sowhenit transpired that Westmanwas not to be found at hishomeeither.Zetterlund considered

putting out a search bulletin,which prompted his youngcolleague Axel Andersson toenquire whether Westmanshould be treated asdangerous.MaybeAndersson

was unable to tell Westmanhimself apart from thecharacters he played onscreen. But to give the manhis due, the situation waslookingincreasinglymessy.The murder was evidently

noordinarysettlingofscoreswithin the family, no booze-up gone wrong, no crimecommittedinafitofpassion.It was a cold-blooded, well-planned assault. Matters did

notimprovewhenthechiefofprovincial police, Jan-HenrikRolf, weighed in with hisassessment that the killingmust be treated as an attackon Swedish industrialinterests. Zetterlund wasfindinghimselfattheheartofanincidentofmajordomesticpoliticalimportanceandevenif he were not the brightestmind in the forcehe realizedthat what he did now would

have a significant long-termimpact.Zetterlund,whohadturned

forty-onetwodaysearlierandwasstillsufferingsomeoftheafter-effects of his birthdayparty,hadneverbeenclosetotaking charge of aninvestigation of thisimportance. The reason hehad now been detailed to doit, if only for a matter ofhours,was that therehadnot

been so many competentpeople on duty during thenight and his superior hadchosen not to wake theNational Murder Squad orany of the more experiencedinvestigators in theStockholmpolice.Accordingly Zetterlund

foundhimself inthemidstofthis confusion, feeling lessand less sure of himself, andwas soon shouting out his

orders.Tobeginwithhewastrying to set in train aneffective door-to-doorenquiry.Hewantedrapidlytogather as much testimony aspossible, even if he was notexpecting to get very muchout of it. It was night-time,and dark, and there was astorm blowing. The peoplelivingnearbyhadmostlikelynot seen anything at all. Butyou never knew. So he had

himself questionedBlomkvist, though God onlyknew what he was doingthere.The presence of one of

Sweden’s best-knownjournalists did not makematters any easier and for awhile Zetterlund imaginedthat Blomkvist wasexamininghimcriticallywitha view to writing a tell-all.Probably that was just his

insecurity.Blomkvisthimselfwas shaken and throughoutthe interview he wasunfailinglypoliteandkeentohelp. But hewas not able toprovide much in the way ofinformation. It had allhappenedsoquicklyand thatin itself was significant, thejournalisttoldhim.There had been something

brutal and efficient about theway in which the suspect

moved, and Blomkvist saidthat it would not be too far-fetched to speculate that themaneitherwasorhadbeenasoldier,possiblyeven specialforces. His way of spinningaround to aim and fire hisweapon had seemedpractised. He had a lampstrapped to his tight-fittingblackcap,andBlomkvisthadnotbeenabletomakeoutanyofhisfeatures.

Hehadbeen too far away,he said, and had thrownhimself to the ground in theinstant the figure had turnedaround. He should thank hislucky stars that he was stillalive.Hecouldonlydescribethebodyandtheclothes,andthat he did very well.According to the journalist,themandidnotseemall thatyoung, he could have beenover forty. He was fit and

taller than average, between185 and 195 centimetres,powerfully built with a slimwaist and broad shoulders,wearing boots and black,military-styleclothes.Hewascarrying a rucksack andlooked to have a knifestrappedtohisrightleg.Blomkvist thought that the

man had vanished down toand along the water’s edge,pasttheneighbouringhouses,

andthatalsomatchedBlom’sand Flinck’s accounts. Thepolicemenhadadmittedlynotseen themanat all.But theyhad heard his footstepsdisappearing down along theseaandsetoffinvainpursuit,orsotheyclaimed.Zetterlundhadhisdoubtsaboutthat.He presumed Blom and

Flinckhadchickenedout,andhad stood there in thedarkness, fearful and doing

nothing. In any event, thatwasthemomentwhenthebigmistakewasmade.Insteadofidentifying escape routesfrom the area and trying tocordon it off, nothing muchseems to have happened. Atthat point Flinck and Blomwere not yet aware thatsomeonehadbeenkilledandas soon as they knew theyhad had their hands fullcoping with a barefoot boy

running hysterically out ofthehouse.Certainlyitcannothavebeeneasytokeepacoolhead. Yet they had lostprecious time and, thoughBlomkvist exercised restraintwhendescribingtheevents,itwasplain to see thatevenhewas critical. He had twiceasked the policemen if theyhad sounded the alarm andgotanodforananswer.

Later on, when Blomkvistoverheard a conversationbetween Flinck and theoperationscentre,he realizedthatthenodwasmostlikelyano, or at best some sort ofbewildered failure to graspthe enormity of what hadhappened.Ithadtakenalongtimeforthealarmtoberaisedandeven then thingshadnotproceeded as they shouldhave, probably because

Flinck’s account of thesituationhadnotbeenclear.Theparalysishadspreadto

other levels. Zetterlund wasinfinitelygladhecouldnotbeblamedforthat–atthatpointhe had not yet becomeinvolved in the investigation.On the other hand he washere, and he should at leasttrytoavoidmakingamessofthings. His personal recordhad not been so impressive

recently and this was anopportunity to put his bestfootforward.He was at the door to the

living room and had justfinished a call to MiltonSecurity about the characterwho had been seen on thesecurity camera earlier thatnight.HedidnotatallfitthedescriptionMikaelBlomkvisthad given of the presumedmurderer. He looked like a

skinny old junkie, albeit onewho must have possessed ahigh level of technical skill.MiltonSecurity believed thatthemanhadhackedthealarmsystem and put all thecameras and sensors out ofaction.Thatcertainlydidnotmake

mattersanyeasier.Itwasnotonly the professionalplanning. It was the idea ofcommittingamurder in spite

of police protection and asophisticated alarm system.How arrogant is that?Zetterlund had been about togodowntotheforensic teamon the ground floor, but hestayed upstairs, deeplytroubled, staring into spaceuntil his gaze fastened onBalder’s son. He was theirkey witness but incapable ofspeech,nordidheunderstanda word they said. In other

words pretty much what onemight expect in thisshambles.The boy was holding a

small, single piece of anextremely complex puzzle.Zetterlundstartedtowardsthecurved staircase leading tothe ground floor – then hestopped dead. He thoughtback to his initial impressionofthechild.Whenhearrivedon the scene, not knowing

very much about what hadhappened, the boy hadseemedthesameasanyotherchild. Zetterlund would havedescribedhimasanunusuallyprettybutnormal-lookingboywithcurlyhairandashockedlook in his eyes. Only laterdidhe learn that theboywasautistic and severelyhandicapped. That, hethought, meant that themurderer either knew him

frombeforeorelsewasawareofhiscondition.Otherwisehewould hardly have let himlive and risk being identifiedin a witness parade, wouldhe? Although Zetterlund didnotgivehimselftimetothinkthisthroughinfull,thehunchexcitedhimandhetookafewhurried paces towards theboy.“Wemust question him at

once,”hesaid,inavoicethat

came out louder and moreurgentthanhehadintended.“Forheaven’s sake, take it

easy with him,” Blomkvistsaid.“Don’t you interfere,”

Zetterlundsnapped.“Hemayhave known the killer. Wehavetogetoutsomepicturesand show them to him.Somehowwemust…”Theboyinterruptedhimby

slammingthepuzzlewithhis

hand in a sudden sweepingmovement. Zetterlundmuttered an apology andwent downstairs to join hisforensicteam.

Blomkvist remained there,lookingattheboy.Itfeltasifsomething else was about tohappen with him, perhaps anew outburst, and the lastthing he wanted was for the

child to hurt himself again.The boy stiffened and beganto make furiously rapidcircular movements over therugwithhisrighthand.Then he stopped and

lookeduppleadingly.ThoughBlomkvist asked himselfwhat that might mean, hedroppedthethoughtwhenthepoliceman whose name henow knew to be Blom satdown with the boy and tried

to get him to do the puzzleagain. Blomkvist went intothekitchentogetsomepeaceand quiet. He was exhaustedandwanted to go home. Butapparentlyhefirsthadtolookat some pictures from asurveillance camera. He hadno ideawhen thatwas goingtohappen.Itwasall takingalong time and seemeddisorganized, and Blomkvistwaslongingforhisbed.

He had spoken to Bergertwice by then and told herwhat had happened. Theyagreed thatBlomkvist shouldwritealongerpieceaboutthemurderforthenextissue.Notjust because the crime itselfwasobviouslyamajordramaand Professor Balder’s lifewas worth describing, butBlomkvist had a personalconnection to the story andthat would raise its quality

and give him an advantageover the competition. Thedramatictelephonecallalone,in the middle of the night,whichhadgothimhereinthefirst place, would give hisarticleanedge.The Serner situation and

the crisis at the magazinewere implicit in theirconversation. Berger hadalready planned for theirtempAndreiZandertodothe

preliminary research whileBlomkvist got some sleep.She had said rather firmly –like someone halfwaybetweena lovingmotherandan authoritative editor-in-chief – that she refused tohave her star reporter deadfrom exhaustion before theworkhadevenbegun.Blomkvist accepted

without protest. Zander wasambitiousandamicableandit

wouldbenicetowakeupandfind all the spadework done,ideally also with lists ofpeopleclose toBalderwhomhe should be interviewing.For a little while Blomkvistwelcomed the distraction ofreflecting on Zander’spersistent problems withwomen, which had beenconfided to him duringevening sessions at theKvarnen beer hall. Zander

was young, intelligent andhandsome. He ought to be acatch.But because therewassomething soft and needy inhischaracter,hewastimeandagainbeingdumped,andthatwas painful for him. Zanderwasan incorrigible romantic,forever dreaming about thebig scoop and love with acapitalL.Blomkvist sat down at

Balder’s kitchen table and

lookedoutatthedarkness.Infront of him, next to amatchbox,acopyoftheNewScientist and a pad of paperwith some incomprehensibleequations on it, lay abeautifulbutslightlyominousdrawing of a street crossing.Amanwithwatery,squintingeyes and thin lips wasstanding next to a trafficlight. He was caught in afleetingmoment and yet you

couldseeeverywrinkleinhisface and the folds in hisquilted jacket and trousers.Hedid not look pleasant.Hehad a heart-shaped mole onhischin.Yetthestrikingthingabout

the drawing was the trafficlight. It shone with aneloquent, troublingglow,andwas skilfully executedaccording to some sort ofmathematical technique. You

could almost see theunderlying geometrical lines.Balder must have enjoyeddoing drawings on the side.Blomkvistwondered, though,about the unconventionalchoice of subject. On theother hand, why would aperson like Balder drawsunsets and ships? A trafficlight was probably just asinterestingtohimasanythingelse.Blomkvistwasintrigued

by the fact that the drawinglooked like a snapshot. EvenifBalder had sat and studiedthe traffic light, he couldhardlyhaveaskedthemantocrossthestreetoverandoveragain. Maybe he wasimagined, or Balder had aphotographic memory, justlike … Blomkvist grewthoughtful. He picked up hismobileand for the third timecalledBerger.

“Are you on your wayhome?”sheasked.“Not yet, unfortunately.

ThereareacoupleofthingsIstill need to look at. But I’dlikeyoutodomeafavour.”“WhatelseamIherefor?”“Could you go to my

computer and log in? Youknow my password, don’tyou?”“I know everything about

you.”

“Then go into DocumentsandopenafilecalledLISBETHSTUFF.”“I think I have an idea

wherethisisgoing.”“Oh? Here’s what I’d like

youtowrite…”“Wait a second, I have to

open it first. O.K., now …Hold on, there are already afewthingshere.”“Ignore them.This iswhat

I want, right at the top. Are

youwithme?”“Yes,I’mwithyou.”“Write: ‘Lisbeth, maybe

you already know, but FransBalder is dead, shot in thehead. Can you find out whysomeone wanted to killhim?’”“Isthatall?”“Well, it’s rather a lot

considering that we haven’tbeenintouchforages.She’llprobably think it’s cheeky of

metoask.ButIdon’tthinkitwouldhurttohaveherhelp.”“A little illegal hacking

wouldn’t go amiss, youmean?”“I didn’t hear that. I’ll see

yousoon,Ihope.”“Ihopeso.”

Salander had managed to gobacktosleep,andwokeagainat 7.30. She was not on top

form;shehadaheadacheandshefeltnauseous.Yetshefeltbetter than she had in thenight. She bandaged herhand,dressed,hadabreakfastof two microwaved meatpiroshki and a large glass ofCoca-Cola, then she stuffedsomework-outclothes intoasports bag and left theapartment. The storm hadsubsided,leavingrubbishandnewspaperslyingalloverthe

city. She walked down fromMosebacke torg and alongGötgatan, muttering toherself.She looked angry and at

least two people werealarmedenough togetoutofher way. But Salander wasmerely determined. She wasnot looking forward toworking out, she justwantedto stick to her routine anddrive the toxins out of her

body.SoshecontinueddowntoHornsgatan,andjustbeforeHornsgatspuckeln she turnedinto the Zero boxing club,whichwasdownoneflightofstairs in the basement. Itseemed more run-down thaneverthatmorning.Theplacecouldhaveused

a coat of paint and somegeneral freshening up. Itseemed as if noimprovementshadbeenmade

since the ’70s.PostersofAliandForemanwerestillonthewalls. It looked just like theday after that legendary boutin Kinshasa, possibly due tothe fact thatObinze, themaninchargeofthepremises,hadseen the fight live as a smallboy and had afterwards runaround in the liberatingmonsoon rain shouting “AliBomaye!” That double-timecanter was not just his

happiest memory, it alsomarked what he called thelast moment of “the days ofinnocence”.Not long after he and his

familyhadbeenforcedtofleeMobutu’s terror and nothinghadeverbeenthesameagain.Maybe it was not so strangethat he wanted to preservethatmoment inhistory, carryit with him to thisgodforsaken boxing hall in

the Södermalm district ofStockholm. Obinze was stillconstantly talking about thefight.Butthenhewasalwaysconstantly talking aboutsomethingorother.Hewastallandmightyand

bald-headed, a chatterbox ofepic proportions and one ofmany in the gym who quitefanciedSalander,even if likemany others he thought shewas more or less crazy.

Periodically she would trainharder than anyone else inthere and go at the punch-balls, punchbags and hersparring partners like amadwoman. She possessed akind of primitive, furiousenergy which Obinze hadseldomcomeacross.Once, before he got to

know her, he had suggestedthat she take up competitiveboxing.Thederisivesnorthe

got in response stopped himfromaskingagain, thoughhehad never understood whyshe trained so hard. Not thathe really needed to know –one could train hard for noreason at all. It was betterthan drinking hard. It wasbetterthanlotsofthings.Maybe it was true, as she

said to him late one eveningabout a year ago, that shewanted to be physically

prepared in case she everendedupindifficultiesagain.Heknew that there had beentrouble before. He had readevery single word about heron the net and understoodwhat itmeant to be preparedin case some evil shadowfromthepastturnedup.Bothhis parents had beenmurderedbyMobutu’sthugs.Whathedidnotunderstand

waswhy,atregularintervals,

Salander gave up trainingaltogether, not exercising atall, eating nothing but junkfood.Whenshecameintothegym that morning – asdemonstratively dressed inblackandpiercedasever–hehad not seen her for twoweeks.“Hello, gorgeous. Where

haveyoubeen?”“Doing something highly

illegal.”

“I can just imagine.Beating thecrapoutof somemotorbike gang orsomething.”Butshedidnotevenriseto

the jest. She just marchedangrily in towards thechanging room and he didsomething he knew shewould hate: he stepped infront of her and looked herstraightintheface.“Youreyesarebrightred.”

“I’vegot themotherof allhangovers.Outofmyway!”“In that case I don’t want

toseeyouinhere,youknowthat.”“Skip the crap. Iwantyou

to drive the shit out of me,”shespat,andduckedpasthimto get changed. When sheemergedwearingheroutsizedboxing shorts and white vestwith the black skull on thechest, he saw nothing for it

but to go ahead and let herhaveit.He pushed her until she

threw up three times in hiswaste-paperbin.Hegaveheras much grief as he could.She gave him plenty of lipback. Then shewent off andchanged and left the gymwithout even a goodbye. Asso often at such momentsObinze was overcome by afeeling of emptiness. Maybe

he was even a little in love.He was certainly stirred –how could one not be by agirlwhoboxedlikethat?Thelasthesawofherwas

her calves disappearing upthe stairs so he could notknowthatthegroundswayedbeneath her feet as she cameout onto Hornsgatan.Salander braced herselfagainst the wall of thebuilding and breathed

heavily. Then she set off inthedirectionofherapartmenton Fiskargatan. Once homeshedrankanother largeglassofCoca-Cola and half a litreof juice, then she crashedonto her bed and looked atthe ceiling for ten, fifteenminutes, thinking about thisand that, about singularitiesand event horizons andcertain special aspects of

Schrödinger’s equation, andEdNeedham.Shewaitedfortheworldto

regainitsusualcoloursbeforeshe got up and went to hercomputer. However reluctantshemightbe, shewasdrawntoitbyaforcewhichhadnotgrown weaker since herchildhood. But this morningshewas not in themood forany wild escapades. Shehacked into Mikael

Blomkvist’s computer. In thenextmomentshefroze.TheyhadbeenjokingaboutBalderand now Blomkvist wrotethat he had been murdered,shotinthehead.“Jesus,” she muttered and

had a look at the onlineeveningpapers.There was no explicit

mentionofBalder,butitwasnot difficult towork out thatthe “Swedish academic shot

at his home in Saltsjöbaden”wasindeedhim.Forthetimebeing, the police were beingtight-lipped and journalistshadnotmanagedtoturnupagreat deal, no doubt becausethey had not yet cottoned onto how big the story was.Other events from the nighttook precedence: the stormand the power outage rightacross the country and thescandalous delays on the

railways. There was also theodd celebrity news itemwhich Salander could not bebotheredtotrytounderstand.The only facts reported on

the murder were that it hadtakenplacearound3.00inthemorning and that the policewereseekingwitnessesintheneighbourhood,forreportsofanything untoward. So farthere were no suspects, butapparently witnesses had

spotted unknown andsuspicious persons on theproperty. The police werelooking formore informationon them. At the end of thearticles it said that a pressconference was going to beheld later that day, led byChief Inspector JanBublanski. Salander gave awistful smile. She had had afair bit of history withBublanski – or Officer

Bubble,ashewassometimescalled– and she thought thatsolongastheydidn’tputanyidiots onto his team theinvestigation would turn outtobereasonablyeffective.Then she readBlomkvist’s

message again. He neededhelp and without thinkingtwice she wrote “O.K.”, notonly because it was he whowas asking. It was personal.She did not do grief, at least

not in the conventional way.Anger,ontheotherhand,yes,a cold ticking rage. Andthough she had a certainrespectforJanBublanskishewas not usually inclined totrust the forces of law andorder.She was used to taking

matters into her own handsand she had all sorts ofreasons to want to find outwhy Frans Balder had been

murdered.Because itwas nocoincidence that she hadsought him out and taken aninterest in his situation. Hisenemiesweremostlikelyherenemiestoo.It had begun with the old

question of whether in somesense her father lived on.AlexanderZalachenko–Zala– had not only killed hermother and destroyed herchildhood, he had also

established and controlled acriminal network, sold drugsand arms and made a livingexploiting and humiliatingwomen. She was convincedthat that sort of evil nevergoesaway.Itmerelymigratesinto other forms. Ever sincethat day just over a year agowhen she had woken up atdawnatHotelSchlossElmauin the Bavarian Alps,Salander had been pursuing

her own investigation intowhat had become of hislegacy.For the most part his old

comrades seemed to haveturned into losers, depravedbandits, revolting pimps orsmall-timecrooks.Notoneofthem was a villain on herfather’s level, and for a longtime Salander remainedconvinced that theorganizationhadchangedand

dissolved after Zalachenko’sdeath. Yet she did not giveup, and eventually shestumbledonsomethingwhichpointed in a whollyunexpecteddirection.Itwasareference to one of Zala’syoung acolytes, aman calledSigfridGruber.Already during Zala’s

lifetime, Gruber was one ofthemoreintelligentpeopleinthe network, and unlike his

colleagues he had earnedhimself degrees in bothcomputer science andbusiness administration,which had apparently givenhimaccesstomoreexclusivecircles. These days hecropped up in a couple ofalleged crimes against high-techcompanies:theftsofnewtechnology, extortion, insidertrading,hackerattacks.

Normally, Salander wouldhave followed the lead nofurther. Not just because itseemed to have little to dowith her father’s oldactivities.Also,nothingcouldworry her less than a coupleofrichbusinessgroupsbeingfleeced of some of theirinnovations. But theneverythinghadchanged.In a classified report from

GovernmentCommunications

Headquarters in Cheltenham,England, which she had gother hands on, she had comeacross some codenamesassociated with a gangGruberseemednowtobelongto. The names had set somebells ringing, and after thatshe had not been able to letgo of the story. She puttogether all the informationshe could find about thegroupandkeptcomingacross

a rumour that theorganization had stolenBalder’sA.I. technology,andthen sold it to the Russian–American games company,Truegames. Her source wasunreliable – a half-openhacker site – but it was forthis reason that she hadturned up at the professor’slecture at the Royal InstituteofTechnologyandgivenhima hard time about

singularities deep withinblack holes.Or thatwas partofthereason.

PARTII

THELABYRINTHSOFMEMORY

21–23.xi

People with a photographicmemory are also said to haveaneideticmemory.*Research shows that people

with eidetic memories aremore likely to be nervous andstressedthanothers.Most,thoughnotall,people

with eidetic memories are

autistic. There is also aconnection betweenphotographic memory andsynaesthesia – the conditionwhere two ormore senses areconnected, for example whennumbersareseenincolourandevery seriesofnumbers formsanimageinthemind.

CHAPTER12

21.xi

Jan Bublanski had beenlooking forward to a day off

and a long conversationwithRabbiGoldman of the Södercongregation about certainquestions which had beentroubling him recently,chiefly concerning theexistenceofGod.Itwouldbegoingtoofarto

say that hewasbecominganatheist.Buttheverynotionofa God had becomeincreasingly problematic forhimandhewantedtodiscuss

his persistent feelings of themeaninglessness of it all,which were oftenaccompanied by dreams ofhandinginhisnotice.Bublanski certainly

considered himself to be agood investigator.His recordof clearing up cases was onthe whole outstanding andoccasionally he was stillstimulatedby the job.Buthewasnotsurehewantedtogo

on investigatingmurders.Hecould learn some new skillwhiletherewasstilltime.Hedreamed about teaching,helpingyoungpeople to findtheir path and believe inthemselves, maybe becausehe himself suffered frombouts of the deepest self-doubt – but he did not knowwhich subject he wouldchoose. He had neverspecialized in one particular

field, aside from that whichhad become his lot in life:suddenevildeathandmorbidhumanperversions.Thatwasdefinitely not something hewantedtoteach.Itwas8.10 in themorning

and he was at his bathroommirror. He felt puffy, wornout and bald. Absent-mindedly he picked up I.B.Singer’snovel,TheMagicianofLublin,whichhehadloved

with such a passion that formany years he had kept itnexttothelavatoryincasehefelt like reading it at timeswhen his stomach wasplaying up.But now he onlymanaged a few lines. Thetelephone rang and hismooddid not improve when herecognizedthenumber:ChiefProsecutor Richard Ekström.A call from Ekström meantnot just work, but probably

work with a political andmedia element to it.Ekströmwould otherwise havewriggled out of it like asnake.“Hi, Richard, nice to hear

from you,” Bublanski lied.“ButI’mafraidI’mbusy.”“What…?No,no,not too

busy for this, Jan.You can’tmiss out on this one. I heardthatyou’dtakenthedayoff.”

“That’s right, and I’m justoffto…”Hedidnotwanttosay to his synagogue. HisJewishness was not popularin the force “… see mydoctor,”hewenton.“Areyousick?”“Notreally.”“What’s that supposed to

mean?Nearlysick?”“Somethinglikethat.”“Well, in that case there’s

noproblem.We’re all nearly

sick, aren’t we? This is animportant case, Jan. TheMinister of Enterprise hasbeenintouch,andsheagreesthat you should handle theinvestigation.”“I find it very hard to

believe the minister knowswhoIam.”“Well,maybenotbyname,

and she’snot supposed tobeinterferinganyway.Butwe’re

allagreed thatweneedabigplayer.”“Flattery no longer works

with me, Richard. What’s itabout?” he said, andimmediately regretted it. Justaskingwashalfwaytosayingyes and he could tell thatEkströmaccepteditassuch.“LastnightProfessorFrans

Balder was murdered at hishomeinSaltsjöbaden.”“Andwhoishe?”

“One of our best-knownscientists, of internationalrenown. He’s a worldauthorityonA.I.technology.”“Onwhat?”“Hewasworkingonneural

networksanddigitalquantumprocesses,thatsortofthing.”“I have no idea what

you’retalkingabout.”“He was trying to get

computers to think, toreplicatethehumanbrain.”

Replicate the humanbrain? Bublanski wonderedwhat Rabbi Goldman wouldmakeofthat.“They say he’s been a

victimofindustrialespionagein the past,” Ekström said.“And that’s why the murderis attracting the attention oftheMinistryofEnterprise.Nodoubt you’re aware of thesolemn declarations theminister has made about the

absolute requirement toprotect Swedish research andnewtechnology.”“Maybe.”“It would seem that this

Balder was under some sortof threat. He had policeprotection.”“Are you saying he was

killed while under policeprotection?”“Well, it wasn’t the most

effective protection in the

world. It was Flinck andBlomfromtheregularforce.”“TheCasanovas?”“Yes. They were assigned

theduty late last night at theheight of the storm and thegeneral confusion. But intheirdefenceithastobesaidthatthewholesituationwasatotal shambles. Balder wasshot while our men weredealingwithadrunkwhohadturnedupatthehouse,outof

nowhere. Unsurprisingly, thekiller took advantage of thatmomentofinattention.”“Doesn’tsoundgood.”“No, it looks very

professional, andon topof italltheburglaralarmseemstohavebeenhacked.”“So there were several of

them?”“We believe so.

Furthermore, there are sometrickydetails.”

“Which the media aregoingtolike?”“Which the media are

goingtolove,”Ekströmsaid.“Thelushwhoturnedup,forexample,wasnoneotherthanLasseWestman.”“Theactor?”“The same. And that’s a

realproblem.”“Because it’ll be all over

thefrontpages?”

“Partly that, yes, but alsobecause there’s a risk we’llend upwith a load of stickydivorce issues on our hands.Westman claimed he wastheretobringhometheeight-year-old son of his partner.Balderhadtheboytherewithhim,aboywho…hangonamoment…Iwant toget thisright … who is certainlyBalder’s biological son, butwho, according to a custody

ruling, he’s not competent tolookafter.”“Whywouldn’taprofessor

who can get computers tobehavelikepeoplebecapableof looking after his ownchild?”“Because previously he

hadshownashockinglackofresponsibility. He was acompletelyhopelessfather,ifI’ve understood it right. It’sall rathersensitive.This little

boy, who wasn’t evensupposed to have been atBalder’s, probably witnessedthekilling.”“Jesus! And what does he

say?”“Nothing.”“Isheinshock?”“Hemust be, but he never

says anything anyway. He’smuteandapparentlydisabled,sohe’snotgoingtobemuchgoodtous.”

“I see. So there’s nosuspect.”“Unlesstherewasareason

why Westman appeared atpreciselythesametimeasthekiller entered the groundfloor. You should getWestmaninforquestioning.”“If I decide to take on the

investigation.”“Asyouwill.”“Areyousosureofthat?”

“In my view you have nochoice. Besides, I’ve savedthebestforlast.”“Andthatis?”“MikaelBlomkvist.”“Whatabouthim?”“For some reason he was

out there too. I think Balderhad asked to see him, to tellhimsomething.”“In the middle of the

night?”“Soitwouldseem.”

“Andthenhewasshot?”“Just before Blomkvist

rang the bell – and it seemsthe journalist caught aglimpseofthekiller.”Bublanski snorted. It was

an inappropriate reaction ineveryconceivablewayandhecould not have explained iteven to himself. Perhaps itwas nerves, or a feeling thatlifewasrepeatingitself.“I’msorry?”Ekströmsaid.

“Just got a bit of a cough.Soyou’reworried thatyou’llend up with a privateinvestigator on your back,onewho’llshowyouallupinabadlight.”“Hmm,yes,maybe.We’re

assuming that Millenniumhave already got going withthe story and right now I’mtrying to find some legaljustification for stoppingthem,orat leastseetoit that

they’re restricted in someway.Iwon’truleoutthatthiscase is to be regarded as amatter affecting nationalsecurity.”“So we’re saddled with

Säpoaswell?”“Nocomment.”Go to hell, Bublanski

thought. “Are Olofsson andthe others at IndustryProtectionworkingonthis?”

“No comment, as I said.When can you start?”Ekströmsaid.“I’lldoit,butIhavesome

conditions,” Bublanski said.“I want my usual team:Modig, Svensson, HolmbergandFlod.”“Of course, O.K., but you

getHansFasteaswell.”“Noway!”“Sorry, Jan, that’s not

negotiable. You should be

gratefulyouget tochoosealltheothers.”“You’rethebitterend,you

knowthat?”“I’vehearditsaid.”“SoFaste’sgoingtobeour

ownlittlemolefromSäpo?”“Nonsense. I happen to

think that all teams benefitfrom someone who thinksdifferently.”“Meaning that when the

rest of us have got rid of all

our prejudices andpreconceived notions, we’restuck with somebody whowill take us back to squareone?”“Don’tbeabsurd.”“Fasteisanidiot.”“No,Jan,heisn’t.He’sjust

…”“What?”“Conservative. He’s not

someone who falls for thelatestfeministfads.”

“Or for the earliest oneseither. Hemay have just gothis head around all that stuffaboutvotesforwomen.”“Comeon, Jan, get a grip.

Fasteisanextremelyreliableand loyal investigator, and Iwon’t listen to any more ofthis.Anyotherrequests?”How about you go take a

running jump? Bublanskithought. “I need to go tomydoctor’s appointment, and in

the meantime I want Modigto lead the investigation,” hesaid.“Is that really such a wise

idea?”“It’s a damnedwise idea,”

hegrowled.“O.K., O.K., I’ll see to it

that Zetterlund hands over toher,” Ekström said with awince.Ekströmwasnowfarfrom

sureheshouldhaveagreedto

takeonthisinvestigation.

Alona Casales rarely workednights. She had managed toavoid them for a decade andjustified her stance on thegrounds that her rheumatismforced her from time to timeto take strong cortisonetablets,whichnotonlyturnedher face into the shape of afullmoon,butalsoraisedher

blood pressure. She neededhersleepandherroutine.Yethere she was, at 3.10 in themorning.She had driven from her

homeinLaurel,Maryland,ina light rain, past the signsaying “N.S.A. NEXT RIGHT –STAFFONLY”,past thebarriersand the electric fence,towards the black, cube-likemainbuildinginFortMeade.She left her car in the

sprawling parking areaalongside the pale blue golf-ball-like radome with itsmyriaddishaerials,andmadeher way through the securitygatesuptoherworkstationonthe twelfth floor. She wassurprised by the feverishatmosphere there and soonrealized that it was EdNeedham and his younghacker team who wereresponsiblefortheheightened

concentration hanging overthedepartment.Needham looked like a

man possessed and wasstanding there bawling out ayoungmanwhosefaceshonewith an icy pallor, a prettyweird guy, Casales thought,just like all those younggenius hackersNeedhamhadsurroundedhimselfwith.Thekidwas skinnyandanaemic-lookingwithahairstyle from

hell, and had strangelyrounded shoulders whichshook with some sort ofspasm. Maybe he wasfrightened. He shudderedevery now and then, and itdid not help matters thatNeedham was kicking at hischair leg. The young manlooked as if he were waitingfor a slap, a clip across theear. But then somethingunexpectedhappened.

Needham calmed downandruffledtheboy’shairlikea loving father.Thatwasnotlikehim.Hedidnotgoinfordemonstrative affection. Hewas a cowboy who wouldneverdoanythingasdubiousas hug another man. Butperhaps he was now sodesperate that he wasprepared to give normalhumanity a go. Ed’s zipwasundone and he had spilled

coffee or Coca-Cola on hisshirt. His face was anunhealthy flushed colour, hisvoice hoarse and rough fromshouting.Casalesthoughtthatno-oneofhisageandweightshouldbepushinghimselfsohard.Although only half a day

had gone by, it looked as ifNeedham and his boys hadbeen living there for aweek.There were coffee cups and

fast-food remnants anddiscarded caps and collegejerseys everywhere, and arank stench of sweat andtension in the air. The teamwas clearly in the process ofturning the whole worldupsidedownintheireffortstotrace the hacker. She calledouttotheminaheartytone:“Goforit,guys!…Fixthe

bastard!”

Shedidnot reallymean it.Secretly she thought thebreachwasamusing.Manyoftheseprogrammersseemedtothink theycoulddowhateverliked, as if they had carteblanche,anditmightactuallydo them some good to seethat the other side could hitback. Here in the PuzzlePalace their shortcomingsonlyshowedwhen theywereconfronted with something

dire, as was happening now.Shehadbeenwokenbyacallsaying that the Swedishprofessor had beenmurderedat his home outsideStockholm, and even thoughthat in itself was not a bigdealfor theN.S.A.–notyet,at any rate – it did meansomethingtoCasales.Thekillingshowedthatshe

had read the signs right, andnow she had to see if she

could move forward onemorestep.Sheloggedinandopened the diagrammaticoverview of the organizationshe had been tracking. Theevasive Thanos sat right atthe top, but there were alsonamesof realpeople like thememberoftheRussianDumaIvan Gribanov, and theGerman,Gruber.She did not understand

why the N.S.A. gave such

lowprioritytothematter,andwhy her superiors keptsuggesting that other, moremainstream law-enforcementagencies should be takingcareofit.Theycouldnotruleout the possibility that thenetworkhadstatebacking,orlinks to Russian stateintelligence, and that it wasall to do with the trade warbetweenEastandWest.Eventhough the evidence was

sparse and ambiguous, therewere indications thatwesterntechnology was being stolenand ending up in Russianhands.Butitwasdifficulttogeta

clearviewofthistangledweboreventoknowwhetheranycrime had been committed –perhaps it was purely bychance that a similartechnology had beendeveloped somewhere else.

These days, industrial theftwas an altogether nebulousconcept. Assets were beingborrowed all the time,sometimes as a part ofcreative exchanges,sometimes just dressed up toseemlegitimate.Largebusinesses,bolstered

by threatening lawyers,regularly scared the livingdaylights out of smallcompanies, and nobody

seemed to find it odd thatindividual innovators hadalmost no legal rights.Besides which, industrialespionage and hacker attackswere often regarded as littlemorethanroutineresearchina competitive environment.You could hardly claim thatthe N.S.A. crowd werehelping to raise ethicalstandardsinthefield.

On the other hand, it wasnotsoeasytoviewmurderinrelative terms, and Casalestook a solemn vow to leavenostoneunturnedintryingtounseat Thanos. She did notget far. In fact she onlymanaged to stretch her armsandmassage her neck beforesheheardpuffingandpantingbehindher.Needham looked dreadful.

Hisbackmusthavegivenout

onhimtoo.Herownneckfeltbetterjustlookingathim.“Ed, towhatdoIowe this

honour?”“I’mthinkingyouandIare

working on the sameproblem.”“Parkyourbutt,oldman.”“You know, from my

limitedperspective…”“Don’t knock yourself,

Ed.”

“I’m not knocking myselfatall.It’snosecretIcouldn’tcare less who’s high or low,who thinks this and whothinks that. I focus on myown stuff. I protect oursystems, and the only thingthat really impresses me iswhenpeoplearegoodattheirjobs.”“You’d hire the Devil

himselfifhewasanygoodinI.T.”

“I can respect just aboutanyenemy,ifheknowswhathe’s doing. Does that makesensetoyou?”“Itdoes.”“AsI’msureyou’veheard,

a rootkit’s been used toaccessourserverandinstallaR.A.T., and that program,Alona, is likepuremusic.Socompact and beautifullywritten.”

“You’ve met a worthyopponent.”“Without a doubt, andmy

guys feel the same way.They’re putting on thisoutraged patriotic act orwhatever the hell it is we’resupposed to do. But actuallytheywant nothingmore thanto meet that hacker and pittheirskillsagainsthis,andfora while I thought: O.K., getover it! Maybe the damage

isn’tsogreatafterall.Thisisjust one genius hacker whowantstoshowoff,andmaybethere’sasilverlining.Imean,we’ve already learned a lotabout our vulnerabilitychasing after this clown. Butthen I began to wonder ifmaybe Iwas being conned –maybe the wholeperformance on my mailserver was just asmokescreen, hiding

something altogetherdifferent.”“Suchas?”“Such as a search for

certain pieces ofinformation.”“NowI’mcurious.”“You should be. We’ve

identified which areas thehackerwas checking out andbasicallyit’sallrelatedtothesame thing, the networkyou’ve been working on,

Alona. They call themselvestheSpiders,don’tthey?”“TheSpiderSociety, to be

precise.But I think it’s somekindofjoke.”“The hacker was looking

forinformationonthatgroupand their connections toSolifon and that made methink, maybe he’s with themand wants to find out howmuchweknowaboutthem.”

“That sounds possible.Theyknowhowtohack.”“But then I changed my

mind.”“Why?”“Because it looks like the

hacker also wanted to showus something. You know, hegot himself superuser statuswhich gave him access todocuments maybe even youhaven’t seen, highlyclassified stuff. But actually

the file he uploaded is soheavilyencryptedthatneitherhe nor we have the slightestchance of reading it unlessthefuckerwhowroteitgivesus the private keys. Anyway…”“What?”“The hacker revealed

through our own system thatwe cooperate with Solifontoo,thesamewaytheSpidersdo.Didyouknowthat?”

“No,myGod,Ididnot.”“I didn’t think so. But

unfortunately what Solifondoes for the Spiders, it alsodoes for us. It’s part of ourown industrial-espionageefforts. That must be whyyour project is such lowpriority. They’re worriedyour investigation will dropusintheshit.”“Idiots.”

“I’dhavetoagreewithyouthere.Probablynowyou’llbetakenoffthejobcompletely.”“That would be

outrageous.”“Relax, there’s a loophole.

Andthat’swhyIdraggedmysorry ass all theway over toyour desk. Start working formeinstead.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“This goddamn hacker

knows things about the

Spiders, and if we can crackhis identity we’ll both get abreakandthenyou’llbeableto see your investigationthrough.”“Iseewhatyou’resaying.”“Soit’sayes?”“It’sasortof,”shesaid.“I

want to focus on finding outwhoshotFransBalder.”“And you’ll keep me

informed?”“O.K.”

“Good.”“Tellme,”shesaid,“ifthis

hacker is so clever,won’t hehavecoveredhistracks?”“No need to worry about

that. No matter how smarthe’sbeen,we’llfindhimandwe’llflayhimalive.”“Whathappenedtoall that

respectforyouropponent?”“It’s still there, my friend.

But we’ll crush him all thesameandlockhimupforlife.

No fucker breaks into mysystem.”

CHAPTER13

21.xi

OnceagainBlomkvistdidnotgetmuchsleep.Hecouldnot

gettheeventsofthenightoutof his head and at 11.15 hegaveup.He went into the kitchen

where he made himself twosandwicheswithcheddar andprosciutto and a bowl ofyoghurt and muesli. But hedid not eat much of it. Heopted instead for coffee andwater and some headachepills.HedrankfiveglassesofRamlösa, swallowed two

Alvedon,tookoutanotebookand tried towritea summaryofwhathadhappened.Hedidnot get far before thetelephonestartedringing.The news was out: “Star

reporter Mikael Blomkvistand T.V. star LasseWestman” had foundthemselves at the centre of a“mysterious” murder drama,mysterious because no-onewas able to work out why

Westman and Blomkvist ofall people, together orseparately, had been on thescene when a Swedishprofessor was shot in thehead. The questions seemedto be insinuating somethingsinister and that was whyBlomkvistquitecandidlysaidthat he had gone there,despite the lateness of thehour, because Balder had

asked to speak to himurgently.“Iwastherebecauseofmy

job.”He was being more

defensive than he needed tobe. Hewanted to provide anexplanation for theaccusations out there,although that might promptmorereporterstodigintothestory.Apartfromthathesaid“No comment”, and if that

was not the ideal response itwas at least straightforwardand unambiguous. After thathe turned off hismobile, puthis father’sold fur coatbackon again and set out in thedirectionofGötgatan.So much was going on at

the office that it remindedhimof theolddays.Alloverthe place, in every corner,there were colleagues sittingand working with

concentration. Berger wasbound to have made one ortwo impassioned speechesand everybody must havebeen aware of thesignificance of the moment.The deadline was just tendays away. There was alsothe threat from Ove LevinandSernerhangingoverthemand the whole team seemedup for the fight. They alljumped to their feet when

they saw him and asked tohear about Balder and thenight, and his reaction to theNorwegians’proposal.Buthewanted to follow their goodexample.“Later, later,” he said, and

went to Andrei Zander’sdesk.Zander was twenty-six

years old, the youngestperson in the office. He haddone his time as an intern at

themagazine and had stayedon, sometimes as a temp, asnow, and sometimes as afreelancer. It painedBlomkvist that they had notbeen able to give him apermanent job, especiallysince they had hired EmilGrandén and Sofie Melker.He would have preferred totake on Zander. But Zanderhadnotyetmadeaname for

himself,andhestillhadalottolearn.He was a superb team

player,andthatwasgoodforthe magazine, but notnecessarilygoodforhim.Notin this cynical business. Theboy was not conceitedenough, although he hadeveryreasontobe.Helookedlike a young AntonioBanderas,andwasquickeronthe uptake thanmost.But he

did not go to any lengths topromote himself. He justwanted to be a part of it alland produce good journalismand he thought the world ofMillennium. Blomkvistsuddenly felt that he lovedeveryone who lovedMillennium. One fine day hewould do something big foryoungZander.“Hi, Andrei,” he said.

“Howarethings?”

“Notbad.Busy.”“I expected nothing less.

What have you managed todigup?”“Quite a bit. It’s on your

desk, and I’ve also written asummary.ButcanIgiveyousomeadvice?”“Good advice is exactly

whatIneed.”“In thatcasegostraight to

Zinkens väg, to see FarahSharif.”

“Who?”“A seriously gorgeous

professor of computerscience. She’s taken thewholedayoff.”“AreyousayingthatwhatI

really need right now is anattractive, intelligentwoman.”“Not exactly that, no.

Professor Sharif just calledandwasundertheimpressionthatBalderhadwantedtotell

you something. She thinksshe knowswhat it may havebeenallabout,andshe’skeentotalktoyou.Maybetocarryout his wishes. I think itsounds like an ideal place tostart.”“Haveyoucheckedherout

otherwise?”“Sure, and we can’t

altogether rule out thepossibility that she has anagenda of her own. But she

was close to Balder. Theywere at university togetherand have co-authored acouple of scientific papers.Therearealsoa fewsociety-page photos which show thetwoofthemtogether.She’sabignameinherfield.”“O.K.,I’llgo.Willyoulet

herknowI’monmyway?”“I will,” Zander said, and

gave Blomkvist the address.So Blomkvist left the office

almost immediately, just ashe had the previous day, andbegan to leaf through theresearch material as he waswalking down towardsHornsgatan. Two or threetimeshebumpedintopeople,but he was concentrating sohard that he scarcelyapologized, and when at lasthe raised his head, his feethad not taken him as far asFarahSharif’splace.

He had stopped off atMellqvist’scoffeebarandsohe drank two doubleespressos standing up. Notjusttogetridofhistiredness.He thought a jolt of caffeinemighthelpwithhisheadache,butafterwardshewonderedifithadbeentherightcure.Asheleftthecoffeeshophefeltworse than when he hadarrived, but thatwasbecauseof all the morons who had

read about the night’sdramatic events and weremakingidioticremarks.Theysay that young people wantnothingmorethantobecomecelebrities. He ought toexplain to them that it is notworth aspiring to. It justdrives you nuts, especially ifyouhaven’t slept andyou’veseen things that no humanbeingshouldhavetosee.

Blomkvist went upHornsgatan,pastMcDonald’sand the Co-op, cut across toRingvägen,andasheglancedtotherighthestiffened,as ifhe had seen somethingsignificant. Butwhat? It wasjust a street crossing with ahigh traffic-accident rate andvast volumes of exhaustfumes,nothingmore.Then itcametohim.

ItwastheverytrafficlightBalder had drawn with hismathematical precision, andso once again Blomkvistpuzzled over the choice ofsubjectmatter. It was not aninanywayunusualcrossing;it was run down and banal.Maybethatwasthepoint.The work of art is in the

eyeofthebeholder,andeventhattellsusnomorethanthatBalder had been here, and

had maybe sat on a benchsomewhere studying thetraffic light. Blomkvist wenton past Zinkensdamm sportscentre and turned right ontoZinkensväg.

Detective Sergeant SonjaModig had been runningaroundallmorning.Nowshewas in her office and lookedbriefly at a framed

photograph on her desk. Itshowed her six-year-old sonAxel on the football pitchafter scoring a goal. Modigwasasingleparentandhadahell of a time organizing herlife. She was expecting tohaveahellishtimeatworkinthe next few days too. Therewas a knock on the door. ItwasBublanskiatlast,andshewas supposed to be handingover responsibility for the

investigation.NotthatOfficerBubble looked as if hewanted to take responsibilityforanythingatall.He was looking unusually

dashing in a jacket and tieand a freshly ironed blueshirt.Hehadcombedhishairover his bald patch. Therewasadreamyandabsentlookon his face, as if murderinvestigations were the lastthingonhismind.

“Whatdidthedoctorsay?”sheasked.“Thedoctor said thatwhat

mattersisnotthatwebelievein God; God is not small-minded. What matters is forus to understand that life isserious and rich. We shouldappreciate it and also try tomaketheworldabetterplace.Whoever finds a balancebetween the two is close toGod.”

“Soyouwereactuallywithyourrabbi?”“Yes.”“O.K.,Jan,I’mnotsureifI

can help with the bit aboutappreciating life. Apart fromby offering you a piece ofSwissorangechocolatewhichI happen to have inmy deskdrawer.Butifwenailtheguywho shot Professor Balderthenwe’lldefinitelymaketheworldalittlebetter.”

“Swiss orange chocolateanda solution to thismurdersoundslikeadecentstart.”Modigbrokeoffapieceof

chocolate and gave it toBublanski, who chewed itwithacertainreverence.“Exquisite,”hesaid.“Isn’tit?”“Just think if life could be

likethatsometimes,”hesaid,pointingat thephotographofthejubilantAxelonherdesk.

“Whatdoyoumean?”“If joycouldexpress itself

withthesameforceaspain,”hesaid.“Yes,justimagine.”“How are things with

Balder’sson?”hesaid.“Hard to tell,” she said.

“He’swithhismothernow.Apsychologist has assessedhim.”“Andwhathavewegot to

goon?”

“Not much yet,unfortunately. We’ve foundout what themurder weaponwas. A Remington 1911 R1Carry,boughtrecently.We’regoing follow it up, but I feelsure we’re not going to beable to trace it.We have theimages from the surveillancecameras, which we’reanalysing. But whateveranglewelookatwestillcan’tsee the man’s face, and we

can’t spot any distinguishingfeatures either – nobirthmarks, nothing, only awristwatch which is justaboutvisibleinonesequence.Itlooksexpensive.Theguy’sclothes are black. His cap isgrey without any branding.Jerker tellsmehemoveslikean old junkie. In one picturehe’s holding a small blackbox, presumably some kindof computer or G.S.M.

station.Heprobablyusedittohackthealarmsystem.”“I’d heard that. How do

youhackaburglaralarm?”“Jerkerhaslookedintothat

too and it isn’t easy,especiallynotanalarmofthisspecification, but it can bedone. The system wasconnected to the net and tothemobilenetworkandsentafeedofinformationtoMiltonSecurity over at Slussen. It’s

not impossible that the guyrecorded a frequency fromthe alarm with his box andmanaged tohack it thatway.Or else he’d bumped intoBalder when he was outwalking and stole someinformation electronicallyfromtheprofessor’sN.F.C.”“What’sanN.F.C.?”“Near Field

Communication, a function

onBalder’smobilewhich heusedtoactivatethealarm.”“Itwassimplerinthedays

whenburglarshadcrowbars,”Bublanski said. “Any cars inthearea?”“A dark-coloured vehicle

wasparkedahundredmetresaway by the side of the roadwith the engine running onandoff,buttheonlypersontohaveseenitisanoldladybythe name of Birgitta Roos;

shehasno ideawhatmake itwas. Maybe a Volvo,according to her. Or like theoneher sonhas.Her sonhasaB.M.W.”“Oh,wonderful.”“Yes, so the investigation

islookingabitbleak,”Modigsaid. “The killers had theadvantageofthenightandtheweather. They could movearound the area undisturbed,and apart from what Mikael

Blomkvisttolduswe’veonlygot one sighting. It’s from athirteen-year-old,IvanGrede.A slightly odd, skinny figurewho had leukaemia when hewas small and who hasdecoratedhisroomentirelyina Japanese style. He has aprecociouswayofexpressinghimself.YoungIvanwentfora pee in the middle of thenight and from the bathroomwindowhesawatallmanby

the water’s edge. The manwas looking out over thewaterandmakingthesignofthe cross with his fists. Itlooked both aggressive andreligious at the same time,Ivansaid.”“Notagoodcombination.”“No, religion and violence

combineddon’tasarulebodewell. But Ivan wasn’t surethat it really was the sign ofthecross.Itlookedlikeit,but

therewassomethingelsetoo,he says. Maybe it was amilitary oath. For awhile hewas afraid that the man wasgoing to walk into the waterand drown himself. Therewas something ceremonialabout the situation, he said,andsomethingaggressive.”“Buttherewasnosuicide.”“No,themanjoggedonin

the direction of Balder’shouse. He had a rucksack,

and dark clothes, possiblycamouflage trousers. He waspowerful and athletic andremindedIvanofhisoldtoys,hesaid,hisninjawarriors.”“That doesn’t sound good

either.”“Not good at all.

Presumably thiswas themanwhoshotatBlomkvist.”“AndBlomkvistdidn’t see

hisface?”

“No, he threw himself tothe ground when the manturned and shot at him. It allhappened very quickly. Butaccording to Blomkvist theman looked as if he hadmilitary training and that fitswith Ivan Grede’sobservations.Ihavetoagree:the speed and efficiency ofthe operation point in thatdirection.”

“Have you got to thebottom of why Blomkvistwasthere?”“Oh,definitely.Ifanything

wasdoneproperly last night,it was the interviews withhim. Have a look at this.”Modig handed over atranscript. “Blomkvist hadbeen in touch with one ofBalder’s former assistantswho claimed that theprofessor had been targeted

by a data breach andhadhistechnology stolen. The storyinterested Blomkvist. ButBalder had been living as arecluse and had virtually nocontact with the outsideworld. All the shopping anderrands were done by ahousekeeper called… just asecond … Fru Rask, LottieRask, who incidentally hadstrictinstructionsnottosayaword about the son living in

thehouse.I’llcometothatina moment. Then last nightI’mguessing thatBalderwasworried and wanted to getsome anxiety off his chest.Don’tforget,hehadjustbeentold that hewas subject to aserious threat. Plus hisburglar alarm had gone offand two policemen wereguarding the house. Perhapshe suspected that his dayswere numbered. No way of

knowing. In any case hecalled Mikael Blomkvist inthe middle of the night andsaid he wanted to tell himsomething.”“In the olden days in

situationslikethatyouwouldcallapriest.”“So now you call a

journalist. Well, it’s purespeculation. We only knowwhat Balder said onBlomkvist’svoicemail.Apart

from that we have no ideawhat he was planning to tellhim. Blomkvist says hedoesn’t know either, and Ibelievehim.ButIseemtobeprettymuchtheonlyonewhodoes.Ekström,who’sbeingamassive nuisance, by theway, is convincedBlomkvistis holding back thingswhichhe plans to publish in hismagazine. I find that veryhard to believe.Blomkvist is

a tricky bugger,we all knowthat. But he isn’t someonewho will knowingly,deliberatelysabotageapoliceinvestigation.”“Definitelynot.”“Ekström is coming on

strong and saying thatBlomkvist should be arrestedfor perjury and obstructionandGodknowswhatelse.”“That’snotgoingtohelp.”

“No, and bearing in mindwhatBlomkvist iscapableofI think we’re better offstaying on good terms withhim.”“I suppose we’ll have to

talktohimagain.”“Iagree.”“AndthisthingwithLasse

Westman?”“We’vejustspokentohim,

andit’snotanedifyingstory.Westman had been to every

barintown–Konstnärsbaren,Teatergrillen, Café Opera,Riche,yougettheidea–andwas rantingand ravingaboutBalder and theboy forhourson end.He drove his friendscrazy. The more Westmandrankandthemoremoneyheblew, the more fixated hebecame.”“Whywasthisimportantto

him?”

“Partly it was a hang–up.You get thatwith alcoholics.I remember it from an olduncle. Every time he gotloaded, he got somethingfixed in his mind. Butobviously there’s more to itthan that. At first Westmanwent on about the custodyruling, and if he had been adifferent person one mightbelieve that he really wasconcernedfortheboy.Butin

this case … I suppose youknow that Westman has aconvictionforassault.”“No,Ididn’t.”“He had a relationship

some years ago with somefashion blogger, RenataKapusinski.He beat the crapoutofher.Ithinkheevenbitherratherbadlyinthecheek.Also, Balder had intended toreport him. He never sent inthe paperwork – perhaps

because of the legal positionhe found himself in – but itclearly suggests that hesuspected Westman of beingviolent towards his son aswell.”“Whatareyousaying?”“Balder had noticed

unexplained bruises on theboy’sbody–andinthishe’sbacked up by a psychologistfrom the Centre for Autism.Soitwas…”

“… probably not love andconcern which droveWestman out toSaltsjöbaden.”“Morelikelyitwasmoney.

After Balder took back hisson,hehadstoppedoratleastreduced the child support hehadagreedtopay.”“Westman didn’t try to

reporthimforthat?”“He probably didn’t dare

to,inthecircumstances.”

“What else does thecustody ruling say?”Bublanskisaid,afterapause.“ThatBalderwasauseless

father.”“Washe?”“He certainly wasn’t evil,

like Westman. But there’dbeen an incident. After thedivorce, Balder had his sonevery other weekend, and atthat timehewas living in anapartment inÖstermalmwith

books from floor to ceiling.Oneofthoseweekends,whenAugustwassix,hewasinthesitting room – with Balderglued to his computer in thenextroomasusual.Wedon’tknowexactlywhathappened.But there was a smallstepladder propped againstone of the bookshelves.August climbed it andprobably took hold of someof the books higher up and

fell and broke his elbow.Heknockedhimselfunconscious,but Balder didn’t hearanything. He just keptworking and only afterseveralhoursdidhediscoverAugustlyingonthefloornextto those books, moaning. AtthathebecamehystericalanddrovetheboytoA.&E.”“And he lost custody

altogether?”

“Not only that. He wasdeclared emotionallyimmature and incapable oftaking care of his child. Hewas not to be allowed to bealone with August. Butfrankly,Idon’tthinkmuchofthatruling.”“Whynot?”“Because it was an

uncontested hearing. The ex-wife’s lawyer went at ithammer and tongs, while

Balder grovelled and said hewasuseless and irresponsibleand unfit to live and Godknows what else. What thetribunal wrote wasmaliciousand tendentious, tomymind.To the effect thatBalderhadnever been able to connectwith other people and hadalways sought refuge withmachines.Now that I’ve hadtime to look into his life alittle, I’m not that impressed

byhowitwasdealtwith.Hisguilt-laden tirades and self-criticismweretakenasgospelby the tribunal. At any rateBalder was extremelycooperative. As I said, heagreed topaya largeamountof child support, fortythousand a month, I believe,plus a one-off payment ofninehundredthousandkronorfor unforeseen expenses.Not

longafterthathetookhimselfofftoAmerica.”“Butthenhecameback.”“Yes, and there were a

number of reasons for that.He’d had his technologystolen, and maybe heidentified who had done it.Hefoundhimselfinaseriousdispute with his employer.But I think it had also to dowith his son. The womanfrom theCentre forAutismI

mentioned, she’d been veryoptimistic about the boy’sdevelopment at an earlystage.Butthennothingturnedout as she’d hoped. She alsoreceived reports that HannaBalder and Westman hadfailed to live up to theirresponsibilitieswhen it cameto his schooling. It had beenagreed thatAugustwould betaught at home, but thespecial-needs teachers seem

to have been played offagainst each other. Probablythe money for his educationwasmisappropriatedandfaketeachers’ names used, allsorts of stuff like that. Butthat’s an altogether differentstory which somebody willhave to look into at somepoint.”“You were talking about

the woman from the CentreforAutism.”

“That’s right. She smelleda rat and called Hanna andWestman and was informedthat everythingwas fine.Butshe had a feeling thatwasn’ttrue. So against normalpractice she made anunannouncedhomevisit and,when they finally let her in,she could tell that the boywas not doing well, that hisdevelopment had stagnated.She also saw those bruises.

So she rang Balder in SanFrancisco, had a longconversation with him andsoonafterthathemovedbackand tookhis sonwithhim tohis new house inSaltsjöbaden,disregardingthecustodyorder.”“How did hemanage that,

seeing as Westman was sokeen to get the childsupport?”

“Goodquestion.AccordingtoWestman, Balder more orless kidnapped the boy. ButHannahasadifferentversionof the story. She says thatFrans turned up and seemedto have changed, so she lethim take August. She eventhought he would be betteroffwithhisfather.”“AndWestman?”“According to her,

Westmanwas drunk and had

justlandedabigpartinanewT.V. production, and wasfeeling cocky and over-confident.Soheagreed to it.Howevermuch hemay havegone on about the boy’swelfare, I think he was gladtoberidofhim.”“Butthen?”“Then he regretted it, and

on top of everything else hewas sacked from the seriesbecause he couldn’t stay

sober.Hesuddenlywantedtohave August back, or not somuchhim,ofcourse…”“Thechildsupport.”“Exactly, and that was

confirmed by his drinkingpals.WhenWestman’screditcard was rejected during thecourse of yesterday evening,he really started ranting andraving about the boy. Hebummed fivehundredkronoroffayoungwomaninthebar

to pay for a taxi toSaltsjöbadeninthemiddleofthenight.”Bublanski was lost in his

thoughts for a while andgazed once again at thephotographofModig’sson.“Whatamess,”hesaid.“Right.”“Under normal

circumstances we would beclose to solving this one.We’d find our motive

somewhere in that custodybattle. But these guys whohack alarm systems and looklikeninjawarriors,theydon’tfitthepicture.”“No.”“There’s something else

I’mwonderingabout.”“What’sthat?”“IfAugustcan’t read, then

what was he doing climbinguptoreachthosebooks?”

Blomkvist was sittingopposite Farah Sharif at herkitchen table with a cup oftea, looking out atTantolunden park. Eventhoughheknewitwasasignof weakness, he wished hedidnothaveastory towrite.He wished he could just sittherewithouthaving topressherforinformation.She did not look as if

talking would do her much

good. Her whole face hadcollapsedandtheintensedarkeyes, which had lookedstraight through him at thefront door, now seemeddisoriented. Sometimes shemutteredBalder’snamelikeamantra or an incantation.Maybe she had loved him.Farahwasfifty-twoyearsoldand a very attractivewoman,not beautiful in aconventional way surely but

with a regal bearing.Hehadsurelylovedher.“Tell me, what was he

like,”Blomkvistsaid.“Frans?”“Yes.”“Aparadox.”“Inwhatway?”“In all sorts of ways. But

mainlybecauseheworkedsohard on the one thing whichworried him more thananything else. Maybe a bit

like Oppenheimer at LosAlamos.Hewasengrossedinsomething he believed couldbeourruin.”“Nowyou’velostme.”“Frans wanted to replicate

biological evolution on adigitallevel.Hewasworkingon self-teaching algorithms –the idea is they can enhancethemselves through trial anderror. He also contributed tothe development of quantum

computers, as people callthem, which Google, Solifonand the N.S.A. are workingon. His objective was toachieve A.G.I., or ArtificialGeneralIntelligence.”“Andwhatisthat?”“It’s when something has

the intelligence of a humanbeing, but the speed andprecision of a computer. If athing like that could becreated, it would give us

enormous advantages withinnumerousfields.”“Nodoubtaboutit.”“There is an extraordinary

amount of research going onin this area, andeven thoughmost scientists aren’tspecificallyaimingforA.G.I.,competition is driving us inthat direction. Nobody canafford not to createapplications which are asintelligent as possible.

Nobodycanafford toput thebrake on development. Justthink of what we haveachieved so far. Just thinkbacktowhatyouhadinyourmobile five years agocompared to what’s in theretoday.”“True.”“Before he became so

secretive, Frans told me heestimatedthatwecouldgettoA.G.I. within thirty or forty

years. That may soundambitious, but for my part Iwonderifhewasn’tbeingtooconservative.Thecapacityofcomputers doubles everyeighteen months, and thehuman brain is bad atgrasping that kind ofexponential growth. It’s likethe grain of rice on thechessboard, you know? Youput one grain of rice on thefirst square, two on the

second, four on the third,eightonthefourth.”“And soon the grains of

ricehavefloodedtheworld.”“The pace of growth goes

onincreasingandintheenditescapes our control. Theinterestingthingisn’tactuallywhen we reach A.G.I., butwhathappensafterthat.Justafewdaysafterwe’vereachedA.G.I., we’ll have A.S.I. –ArtificialSuper-Intelligence–

used to describe somethingmore intelligent thanwe are.Afterthatit’lljustgetquickerand quicker. Computers willstart enhancing themselvesatanacceleratingpace,perhapsby a factor of ten, andbecome a hundred, athousand, ten thousand timescleverer than we are. Whathappensthen?”“Idreadtothink.”

“Quite. Intelligence initself is not predictable. Wedon’t know where humanintelligence will take us.Weknow even less what willhappen with a super-intelligence.”“Intheworstcasewe’llbe

no more interesting to thecomputer than little whitemice,” Blomkvist said,thinking of what he hadwrittentoSalander.

“In the worst case? Weshare 90 per cent of ourD.N.A.withmice, andwe’reassumed to be about onehundred times as intelligent.Only one hundred times.Here’s something completelynew, not subject to thesekinds of limitations,according to mathematicalmodels. And it can becomeperhapsamillion timesmoreintelligent.Imaginethat.”

“I’m certainly trying to,”Blomkvistsaidwithacarefulsmile.“Imean,howdoyouthink

a computer would feel whenit wakes up to find itselfcaptured and controlled byprimitive little creatures likeus.Whywoulditputupwiththat?” she said. “Why onearth should it show us anyconsideration, still less let usdig around in its entrails in

order to shut down theprocess? We risk beingconfrontedbyanexplosionofintelligence, a technologicalsingularity, as Verner Vingeput it. Everything thathappensafterthatliesbeyondoureventhorizon.”“So the very instant we

createasuper-intelligencewelosecontrol,isthatright?”“Theriskisthateverything

weknowabouttheworldwill

cease tobe relevant, and it’llbe the end of humanexistence.”“Youarejoking.”“I know it sounds crazy,

but it’s a very real question.Therearethousandsofpeopleallovertheworldworkingtoprevent a development likethis. Many are optimists, oreven foresee some kind ofutopia. There’s talk offriendly A.S.I., super-

intelligences which areprogrammedfromthestarttodo nothing but help us. Theidea is something along thelines of what Asimovenvisioned in his book I,Robot: built-in laws whichforbid the machines to harmus. The writer and innovatorKurzweil has visions of awonderful world in whichnanotechnology allows us tointegrate ourselves with

computers, and share ourfuture with them. But thereare no guarantees. Laws canbe repealed. The intent ofinitial programming can bechanged and it’s fatally easyto make anthropomorphicmistakes: to ascribe humancharacteristics to machinesand misunderstand whatdrives them inherently.Franswas obsessed with thesequestions and, as I said, he

was of two minds. He bothlonged for intelligentcomputers and he alsoworriedaboutthem.”“Hecouldn’thelpbutbuild

hismonsters.”“A bit like that, though

that’sputtingitdrastically.”“Howfarhadhegot?”“Further, I think, than

anyone could imagine, andthat may have been yetanotherreasonwhyhewasso

secretive about his work atSolifon. He was afraid hisprogramwouldendup in thewrong hands. He was evenafraid the program wouldcome into contact with theinternetandmergewithit.Hecalled it August, after hisson.”“Andwhereisitnow?”“He never went anywhere

without it. Itmust have beenrightbythebedwhenhewas

shot.But the terrible thing isthat the police say there wasnocomputerthere.”“I didn’t see one either.

But then my focus waselsewhere.”“It must have been

dreadful.”“Perhaps you heard that I

also saw themanwho killedhim,” Blomkvist said. “Hewascarryingarucksack.”

“That doesn’t sound good.But with a bit of luck thecomputer will turn upsomewhereinthehouse.”“Let’s hope so. Do you

have any idea who stole histechnology the first timearound?”“Yes, I do, as a matter of

fact.”“Thatinterestsmealot.”“Icanseethat.Butthesad

thing is that I have some

personal responsibility forthismess.Franswasworkinghimselftodeath,yousee,andIwasworriedhewouldburnout. Thatwas about the timehe had lost custody ofAugust.”“Whenwasthat?”“Two years ago. He was

utterly worn out. He wasn’tsleeping,andhewentaroundblaming himself, yet he wasincapable of dropping his

research. He threw himselfintoitasifitwereallhehadleft in life, and so I arrangedforhimtogetsomeassistantswho could take some of theload. I let him havemy beststudents. I knew, of course,that none of them was amodel of probity, but theywere ambitious and gifted,andtheiradmirationforFranswas boundless. Everything

looked promising. But then…”“His technology was

stolen.”“Hehadclearproofofthat

when the application fromTruegames was submitted tothe U.S. Patent Office inAugust last year. Everyunique aspect of histechnology had beenduplicated and written downthere – it was obvious. At

first they all suspected theircomputers had been hacked,but I was sceptical from thestart – I knew howsophisticated Frans’encryption was. But sincethere was no other plausibleexplanation, that was theinitial assumption, and for awhilemaybeFransbelievedithimself. It was nonsense ofcourse.”

“What are you saying?”Blomkvist burst out. “Surelythe data breach wasconfirmedbyexperts.”“Yes,by some idiot show-

off at the N.D.R.E. But thatwas just Frans’ way ofprotecting his boys, or itcould have been more thanthat.Isuspecthealsowantedto play detective, althoughheaven knows how he couldbe so stupid. You see …”

Farah took a deep breath, “Ilearned all this only a fewweeks ago. Frans and littleAugust were here for dinnerand I sensed at once that hehad something important totellme.Itwashangingintheair.After a couple of glassesheaskedme toput awaymymobileandbegantospeakina whisper. I have to admitthat at first I was simplyirritated. He was going on

againabouthisyounghackergenius.”“Hacker genius?”

Blomkvist said, trying tosoundneutral.“A girl he spoke about so

much that it was doing myhead in. I won’t bore youwith the full story, but she’dturned up out of the blue atone of his lectures andpractically lectured him onthe concept of singularity.

She impressed Frans, and hestartedtoopenuptoher–it’sunderstandable.Amega-nerdlike Frans can’t have foundallthatmanypeoplehecouldtalk to at his own level, andwhenherealizedthat thegirlwas also a hacker he askedher to take a look at theircomputers. At the time theyhad all the equipment at thehome of a guy called Linus

Brandell, one of theassistants.”All Blomkvist said was,

“LinusBrandell.”“Yes,” Farah said. “The

girl came round to his placein Östermalm and just threwhimout.Thenshegottoworkon the computers. Shecouldn’t find any sign of abreach,butshedidn’tleaveitat that. She had a list ofFrans’ assistants and hacked

them all from Linus’computer. It didn’t take longfor her to realize that one ofthem had sold him out tononeotherthanSolifon.”“Andwhowasit?”“Frans didn’t want to tell

me, even though I pressedhim. But the girl apparentlycalled him directly fromLinus’ apartment. Frans wasin San Francisco at the time,and you can imagine:

betrayedbyoneofhisown!Iwas expecting him to reportthe guy right away and raisehell.Buthehadabetteridea.He asked the girl to pretendtheyreallyhadbeenhacked.”“Whywouldhedothat?”“Hedidn’twantanytraces

ofevidencetobetidiedaway.He wanted to understandmore about what hadhappened.Isupposeitmakessense–foroneoftheworld’s

leading software businessesto steal and exploit histechnologywasobviouslyfarmore serious than if somegood-for-nothing,unprincipledshitofastudenthad done the same. BecauseSolifon isn’t just one of themost respected researchgroups in the U.S.A., theyhadalsobeentryingtorecruitFransforyears.Hewaslivid.‘Those bastards were trying

to seduceme, and they stolefrommeatthesametime,’hegrowled.”“Let me be sure I’ve got

this right.” Blomkvist said.“You’resayinghe tooka jobatSolifoninordertofindoutwhy and how they’d stolenfromhim?”“If there’s one thing I’ve

learned over the years, it’sjusthowdifficult itcanbetounderstand a person’s

motivation. The salary andthefreedomandtheresourcesobviously came into it. Butapartfromthat,yes,Iimagineyou’reright.He’dworkedoutthat Solifon was involved inthe theft even before thishacker girl examined hiscomputers.Shegavehim thespecific information and thatenabled him to dig into themess.Intheenditturnedoutto be much more difficult

thanhe expected, andpeoplestarted getting verysuspicious. It wasn’t longbefore he becamefantasticallyunpopular,sohekept more and more tohimself. But he did findsomething.”“What?”“This is where it all gets

sensitive.Ireallyshouldn’tbetellingyou.”“Yethereweare.”

“Yethereweare.Notonlybecause I’ve always had theutmost respect for yourjournalism. Itoccurred tomethis morning that it may nothave been a coincidence thatFrans rang you last nightrather than Säpo’s IndustryProtection Group, whom hehadalsobeenintouchwith.Ithink he was beginning tosuspect a leak there. It mayhave been no more than

paranoia – Frans displayed avariety of symptoms ofpersecution mania – but itwasyouhecalled,andnowIhope that I can fulfil hiswish.”“Ihopeyoucan.”“At Solifon there’s a

departmentcalled‘Y’,”Farahsaid.“GoogleXisthemodel,the department where theyworkon‘moonshots’,astheycall them, wild and far-

fetchedideas,likelookingforeternal life or connectingsearch engines to brainneurons. If any place willachieve A.G.I. or A.S.I.,that’s probably it. Frans wasassigned to ‘Y’. But thatwasn’t as smart as it mayhavesounded.”“Andwhynot?”“Becausehehadfoundout

fromhishackergirlthattherewas a secret group of

business intelligence analystsat ‘Y’, headed up by acharacter called ZigmundEckerwald, also known asZeke.”“Andwhoisthat?”“Theverypersonwhohad

been communicating withFrans’treacherousassistant.”“So Eckerwald was the

thief.”“A thief of the highest

order. On the face of it, the

work carried out byEckerwald’s group wasperfectly legitimate. Theycompiled information onleading scientists andpromising research projects.Every large high-tech firmhasa similaroperation.Theywant to know what’s goingon and who they should berecruiting. But Fransunderstood that the groupwent beyond that.They stole

– through hacker attacks,espionage, moles andbribery.”“But then why didn’t he

reportthem?”“It was tricky to prove.

Theywerecareful,tobesure.But in the endFranswent tothe owner, Nicolas Grant.Grant was horrified andapparently organized aninternalinvestigation.Buttheinvestigation found nothing,

eitherbecauseEckerwaldhadgot rid of the evidence orbecausetheinvestigationwasjust for show. It leftFrans ina tight spot.Everyone turnedonhim.Eckerwaldmusthavebeen behind it, and I’m surehehadno troublegetting theothers to join in. Frans wasalreadyperceivedasparanoidand became progressivelyisolatedandfrozenout.Icanpicture it. How he would sit

there and become more andmore awkward and contrary,and refuse to say a word toanyone.”“So he had no concrete

evidence,youthink?”“Well,hedidat leasthave

the proof the hacker girl hadgiven him: that Eckerwaldhad stolen Frans’ technologyandsolditon.”“And he knew that for

sure?”

“Without a shadow of adoubt. Besides, he hadrealized that Eckerwald’sgroupwasnotworkingalone.It had backing from outside,in all likelihood from theAmerican intelligenceservicesandalso…”Farahhesitated.“Yes?”“Thisiswherehewasabit

more cryptic, and it may bethat he didn’t know all that

much. But he had comeacross an alias, he said, forthe person who was the realleader outside Solifon.‘Thanos’.”“Thanos?”“That’s right. He said that

this individual was greatlyfeared.Buthedidn’twant tosay more than that. Heneeded life insurance, heclaimed,forwhenthelawyerscameafterhim.”

“Yousaidyoudidn’tknowwhich of his assistants soldhim out. But you must havegiven it a great deal ofthought,”Blomkvistsaid.“I have, and sometimes, I

don’t know… Iwonder if itwasn’tallofthem.”“Whydoyousaythat?”“When they started

working forFrans, theywereyoung, ambitious and gifted.By the time they finished,

theywerefedupwithlifeandfullofanxieties.MaybeFransworked them too hard. Ormaybethere’ssomethingelsetormentingthem.”“Do you have all their

names?”“I do. They’re my boys –

unfortunately,I’dhavetosay.First there’s Linus Brandell,I’ve already mentioned him.He’s twenty-four now, andjust drifts around playing

computergamesanddrinkingtoomuch.Forawhilehehada good job as a gamesdeveloperatCrossfire.Buthelostitwhenhestartedcallingin sick and accusing hiscolleagues of spying on him.Then there’s Arvid Wrange,maybe you’ve heard of him.He was a promising chessplayeronceupona time.Hisfatherpushedhim inaprettyinhumanway and in the end

Arvid had enough and cameto study with me. I’d hopedthathewouldhavecompletedhis Ph.D. long ago. Butinstead he props up the barsaround Stureplan and seemsrootless. He came into hisownforawhilewhenhewaswith Frans. But there wasalsoalotofsillycompetitionamong the boys. Arvid andBasim,thethirdguy,cametohate each other – at least

Arvid hated Basim. BasimMalik probably doesn’t dohate. He’s a sensitive,exceedingly smart boy whowas taken on by SolifonNordicayearago.Butheranout of steam pretty quickly.Right nowhe’s being treatedfor depression at Erstahospitalanditsohappensthathis mother, whom I knowvaguely, rang me thismorning to tell me that he’s

under sedation. When hefoundoutwhathadhappenedtoFrans,he tried toslashhiswrists.It’sdevastating,butatthe same time I do wonder:was it just grief? Or was italsoguilt?”“Howishenow?”“He’s not in any danger

fromaphysicalpointofview.And then there’s NiklasLagerstedt, and he … well,what can I say about him?

He’s not like the others, atleast not on the surface. Hewouldn’t drink himself intooblivion or even think ofharming himself. He’s ayoung man with moralobjections to most things,including violent computergames and porn. He’s amember of the MissionCovenantChurch.Hiswifeisapaediatricianand theyhaveayoungsoncalledJesper.On

top of all that he’s aconsultant with the NationalCriminal Police, responsiblefor the computer systemcoming into service in thenew year, which means he’shad to go through securityclearance. But who knowshowthoroughitwas.”“Whydoyousaythat?”“Because behind that

respectable facade he’s anastypieceofwork.Ihappen

to know that he’s embezzledparts of his father-in-law’sandhiswife’sfortune.He’sahypocrite.”“Have the boys been

questioned?”“Säpohavetalkedtothem,

butnothingcameofit.AtthattimeitwasthoughtthatFranswas the victim of a databreach.”“Iimaginepolicewillwant

toquestionthemagainnow.”

“Iassumeso.”“Doyouhappentoknowif

Balderdidmuchsketchinginhisfreetime?”“Sketching?”“Really detailed drawings

ofscenes.”“No,Idon’tknowanything

about that,” she said. “Whydoyouask?”“I saw a fantastic drawing

athishome,ofa traffic lightuphereontheintersectionof

HornsgatanandRingvägen.Itwas flawless, a sort ofsnapshotinthedark.”“How strange. Frans

wasn’t usually in this part oftown.”“There’s something about

thatdrawingthatwon’tletgoof me,” Blomkvist said, andherealizedtohissurprisethatFarah had taken hold of hishand. He stroked her hair.Then he stood up with a

feeling that he was ontosomething. He said goodbyeandwentoutontothestreet.On the way back up

ZinkensväghecalledBergerandaskedhertotypeanotherquestioninLISBETHSTUFF.

CHAPTER14

21.xi

Ove Levin was sitting in hisoffice with a view over

Slussen and Riddarfjärden,not doingmuch at all exceptGooglinghimself inthehopeof coming across somethingto cheer him up. What hefound himself reading wasthathewassleazyandflabbyand that he had betrayed hisideals. All that in a blogwritten by a slip of a girl atthe Institute for MediaStudies at StockholmUniversity. It made him so

furiousthatheevenforgot towrite her name in the littleblackbookhekept,ofpeoplewhowouldnevergetajobintheSernerGroup.He could not be bothered

toburdenhisbrainwithidiotswhohadnoideawhatittakesand would only ever writeunderpaid articles in obscurecultural magazines. Ratherthan wallow in destructivethoughts, he went into his

online account and checkedhis portfolio. That helped abit, at least to begin with. Itwas a good day on themarkets.TheNasdaqand theDowJoneshadbothgoneuplast night and theStockholmsindexwas1.1percenthighertoo.Thedollar,towhich he was rather tooexposed, had risen, andaccording to the update of a

fewsecondsagohisportfoliowasworth12,161,389kronor.Notbadforamanwhohad

oncecoveredhouse firesandknife fights for the morningeditionofExpressen.Twelvemillion,plustheapartmentinVillastaden and the villa inCannes. They could postwhatever they wanted ontheir blogs. He was wellprovided for, andhecheckedthe value of his portfolio

again. 12,149,101. JesusChrist, was it dropping?12,131,737. He grimaced.Therewasnoreasonwhythemarketshouldbefalling,wasthere? The employmentfigures had been good, afterall. He took the tumble invalue almost personally andcould not help thinking ofMillennium, howeverinsignificantitmightbeinthebigger picture. He found

himself getting worked upagain and reluctantly heremembered the openlyhostilelookonErikaBerger’sbeautiful face at the meetingyesterday afternoon. Thingshad not improved thismorning.Hehadjustabouthadafit.

Blomkvisthadcroppeduponevery site, and that hurt.Notonly because Levin had sogleefully registered that the

younger generation hardlyknewwhoBlomkvistwas.Healso hated that media logicwhichsaidthatyoubecameastar–astarjournalistorastaractor or whatever the hell itmight be – simply becauseyou found yourself in somesort of trouble. He wouldhave been happier to readabout that has-beenBlomkvist who wasn’t evengoing to keep his job at his

own magazine, not if OveLevin and SernerMedia hadanythingtodowithit.Insteadthey said:why FransBalder,ofallpeople?Why on earth did he have

to be murdered right underBlomkvist’s nose? Wasn’tthat just typical? Soinfuriating. Even if thoseuseless journalists out therehadn’t realized it yet, Levinknew that Balder was a big

name.Not long ago Serner’sown newspaper, BusinessDaily,hadproducedaspecialsupplement on Swedishscientific researchwhich hadgiven him a price tag: fourbillion kronor, though Godknows how they got to thatfigure. Balder was a star, nodoubt about it. Mostimportantly,hewasaGarbo.He never gave interviews,

and that made him all themoresoughtafter.How many requests had

BalderreceivedfromSerner’sown journalists after all? Asmany as he had refused or,for that matter, simply notbothered to answer.Many ofLevin’s colleagues out therethoughtBalderwassittingona fantastic story.He couldn’tbear the idea that, so thenewspaper reports said,

Balder hadwanted to talk toBlomkvist in the middle ofthe night. Could Blomkvistreallyhaveascoopontopofeverything else? That wouldbe disastrous. Once more,almost obsessively, LevinwentontotheAftonbladetsiteand was met with theheadline:

WHAT DID TOPSWEDISH

SCIENTIST HAVETO SAY TO

MIKAELBLOMKVIST?

MYSTERY CALL JUSTBEFORE THE MURDER

The article was illustratedby a double-columnphotograph of MikaelBlomkvist which did notshow any flab at all. Thosebastard editors had gone and

chosen the most flatteringphotograph they could find,and that made him angrierstill. I have to do somethingabout this, he thought. Butwhat? How could he put astop to Blomkvist withoutbarginginlikesomeoldEastGerman censor and makingeverythingworse?He lookedout towards Riddarfjärdenand an idea came to him.

Borg,hethought.Myenemy’senemycanbemybestfriend.“Sanna,”heshouted.“Yes,Ove?”SannaLindwashis young

secretary.“Bookalunchatoncewith

William Borg at Sturehof. Ifhesayshehassomethingelseon, tell him this is moreimportant.He can even havearaise,”hesaid,andthought:why not? If he’s prepared to

helpmeinthismessthenit’sonly fair he gets somethingoutofit.

HannaBalderwasstandinginthe living room at Torsgatanlooking in despair atAugust,who had yet again dug outpaper and crayons. She hadbeen told that she had todiscourage him, and she didnotlikedoingit.Notthatshe

questioned thepsychologist’sadvice and expertise, but shehad her doubts. August hadseen his fathermurdered andif he wanted to draw, whystop him? Even if it did notseem be doing him muchgood.Hisbodytrembledwhenhe

started drawing and his eyesshone with an intense,tormented light. The patternof squares spreading out and

multiplying in mirrors was astrange theme, given whathad happened. But what didshe know?Maybe itwas thesame as with his series ofnumbers. Even though shedid not understand it in theslightest,itpresumablymeantsomething to him, andperhaps – who knows? –those squares were his ownwayofcoming to termswithevents. Shouldn’t she just

ignore the instructions?Afterall,whowould findout?Shehad read somewhere that amother should rely on herintuition.Gut feeling isoftena better tool than all thepsychological theories in theworld. She decided to letAugustdraw.But suddenly the boy’s

backstiffenedlikeabow,andHanna could not helpthinking back to what the

psychologist had said. Shetook a hesitant step forwardandlookeddownatthepaper.Shegaveastart,andfeltveryuncomfortable. At first shecouldnotmakesenseofit.She saw the same pattern

of squares repeatingthemselves in twosurrounding mirrors and itwasextremelyskilfullydone.Buttherewassomethingelsethereaswell,ashadowwhich

grewoutofthesquares,likeademon, a phantom, and itfrightenedthelivingdaylightsout of her. She started tothink of films about childrenwho become possessed. Shesnatched the drawing fromthe boy and crumpled it upwithout fully understandingwhy. Then she shut her eyesand expected to hear thatheart-rending toneless cryagain.

Butsheheardnocry,justamuttering which soundedalmost like words –impossible because the boydidnot speak. InsteadHannapreparedherself foraviolentoutburst, with Augustthrashingbackandforthoverthe living-room floor. Butthere was no attack either,only a calm and composeddeterminationasAugust tookholdof anewpieceofpaper

and started to draw the samesquares again.Hanna had nochoicebuttocarryhimtohisroom. Afterwards she woulddescribe what happened aspurehorror.August kicked and

screamedandlashedout,andHanna only just managed tokeepholdofhim.Fora longtime she lay in the bed withherarmsknottedaroundhim,wishing that she could go to

pieces herself. She brieflyconsideredwakingLasseandasking him to give Augustone of those tranquillizingsuppositories they now had,but then discarded that idea.Lasse would be bound to beinafoulmoodandshehatedto give a child tranquillizers,however much Valium shetookherself.Therehad tobesomeotherway.

She was falling apart,desperately considering oneoption after the other. Shethought of her mother inKatrineholm, of her agentMia,of thenicewomanwhorang last night, GabriellaGrane, and then of thepsychologist again, EinarFors-something, who hadbrought August to her. Shehad not particularly likedhim. On the other hand he

had offered to look afterAugust for a while, and thiswas all his fault in the firstplace.He was the one who said

August should not draw, sohe should be sorting out thismess.Intheendsheletgoofher son and dug out thepsychologist’s card to callhim. August immediatelymade a break for the living

room to start drawing hisdamnsquaresagain.

EinarForsbergdidnothaveagreat deal of experience. Hewasforty-eightyearsoldandwith his deep-set blue eyes,brand-new Dior glasses andbrown corduroy jacket hecould easily be taken for anintellectual. But anyone whohad ever disagreed with him

would know that there wassomething stiff and dogmaticabouthiswayofthinkingandheoftenconcealedhislackofknowledgebehinddogmaandcocksurepronouncements.Ithadonlybeen twoyears

since he qualified as apsychologist. Before that hewas a gym teacher fromTyresö,and ifyouhadaskedhisoldpupilsabouthimtheywould all have roared:

“Silence, cattle! Be quiet, ohmy beasts!” Forsberg hadloved to shout those words,only half joking, when hewanted order in theclassroom, and even thoughhe had hardly been anyone’sfavourite teacherhehadkepthis boys in line. It was thisability which persuaded himthathecouldputhisskills tobetteruseelsewhere.

He had been working atOden’s Medical Centre forChildrenandAdolescents forone year. Oden’s was anemergency service whichtook in children and youngpeople whose parents couldnot cope. Not even Forsberg– who had always been astaunchdefenderofwhateverworkplace he was at –believed that the centrefunctioned especiallywell. It

was all crisis managementand not enough long-termwork. Children would comeinaftertraumaticexperiencesathomeandthepsychologistswere far too busy trying tomanage breakdowns andaggressive behaviour to beable to devote themselves toresolving underlying causes.Evenso,Forsbergthoughthewas doing some good,especially when he used his

old classroom authority toquietenhystericalchildren,orwhen he handled crisissituationsoutinthefield.He liked to work with

policemen and he loved thetension in the air afterdramaticevents.Hehadbeenexcited and expectant as hedrove out to the house inSaltsjöbaden in the course ofhis night duty. There was atouchofHollywoodaboutthe

situation, he thought. ASwedish scientist had beenmurdered, his eight-year-oldson had been at the house,and he, Forsberg, had beensent to try to get the boy toopen up. He straightened hishair and his glasses severaltimesintherear-viewmirror.He wanted to make a

stylish impression, but oncehe arrived he was not muchof a success. He could not

make the boy out. Still, hefelt acknowledged andimportant. The detectivesasked him how they shouldgo about questioning thechild and – even though hedid not have a clue – hisanswer was received withrespect. That gave his ego alittleboostandhedidhisbestto be helpful. He found outthat the boy suffered frominfantile autism and had

never spoken or beenreceptivetotheworldaroundhim.“There’s nothing we can

do for the time being,” hesaid.“Hismentalfacultiesaretooweak.AsapsychologistIhave to put his need for carefirst.”Thepolicemenlistenedto him with seriousexpressionsandlethimdrivetheboyhometohismother–

whowas another little bonusinthewholestory.Shewas theactressHanna

Balder. He had had the hotsforhereversincehesawherin “The Mutineers” and herememberedherhipsandherlong legs, and even thoughshe was now a bit older shewas still attractive. Besides,her current partner wasclearly a bastard. Forsbergdid his best to appear

knowledgeable and charmingin a low-key way; withinmoments he got anopportunity to beauthoritative, and that madehimproud.With awild expression on

his face the son began todrawblackandwhiteblocks,or squares, and Forsbergpronounced that this wasunhealthy. It was preciselythe kind of destructive

compulsive behaviour thatautisticchildrenslipinto,andhe insisted that August stopimmediately. This was notreceived with as muchgratitudeashehadhopedfor.Still, it had made him feeldecisive and manly, andwhile hewas at it he almostpaidHannaacomplimentforher performance in “TheMutineers”. But then hedecided that it was probably

nottherighttime.Maybethathadbeenamistake.Now it was 1.00 in the

afternoon, and he was backhomeathisterracedhouseinVällingby. He was in thebathroom with his electrictoothbrush,feelingexhausted,whenhismobilerang.Atfirsthewasirritated–butthenhesmiled.ItwasnoneotherthanHannaBalder.

“Forsberg,”heansweredinanurbanevoice.“Hello,”shesaid.“August,

August…”Shesoundeddesperateand

angry.“Tell me, what’s the

problem?”“Allhewantstodoisdraw

his chessboard squares. Butyou’re saying he isn’tallowedto.”

“No, no, it’s compulsive.Butplease,juststaycalm.”“How the hell am I

supposedtostaycalm?”“The boy needs you to be

composed.”“But I can’t be. He’s

yelling and lashing out ateverything. You said youcouldhelp.”“Well, yes,” he said,

hesitant at first. Then hebrightened, as if he hadwon

some sort of victory.“Absolutely, of course. I’llsee to it that he gets a placewithusatOden’s.”“Wouldn’t that be letting

himdown?”“On the contrary, you’re

just taking account of hisneeds.I’llseetoitpersonallythatyoucanvisit us asoftenasyoulike.”“Maybe that’s the best

solution.”

“I’msureofit.”“Will you come right

away?”“I’llbewithyouassoonas

Ican,”hesaid.Firsthehadtosmartenhimselfupabit.Thenheadded:“DidItellyouthatI loved you in ‘TheMutineers’?”

It was no surprise to Levinthat William Borg was

already at the table atSturehof, nor that he orderedthe most expensive items onthemenu, solemeunière anda glass of Pouilly-Fumé.Journalists generally madethemostofitwhenheinvitedthem to lunch. But it didsurprise – and annoy – himthat Borg had taken theinitiative, as if he were theone with the money and thepower. Why had he

mentioned that raise? Heshould have kept Borg ontenterhooks, let him sit thereandsweatinstead.“A little birdwhispered in

my ear that you’re havingdifficultieswithMillennium,”Borgsaid,andLevinthought,I’dgivemyrightarmtowipethat self-righteous smirk offhisface.“You’ve been

misinformed,”hesaidstiffly.

“Really?”“We have the situation

undercontrol.”“Howso,ifyoudon’tmind

myasking?”“If the editorial team is

disposed to accept changeand is ready to recognize theproblems it has, we’ll backthem.”“Andifnot…”“We’ll pull out, and

Millennium will be unlikely

tostayafloatformorethanafewmonths,whichwould ofcoursebe agreat shame.Butthat’s what the market lookslike at the moment. Bettermagazines than Millenniumhave gone under. It’s beenonlyamodest investment forus and we can managewithoutit.”“Skip the bullshit, Ove. I

know that this is amatter ofprideforyou.”

“It’sjustbusiness.”“I’dheardthatyouwanted

to get Mikael Blomkvist offtheeditorialteam.”“We’ve been thinking of

transferringhimtoLondon.”“Isn’t that a bit harsh,

considering what he’s doneforthemagazine?”“We’ve made him a very

generous offer,” Levin said,feeling that he was being

unnecessarily defensive andpredictable.He had almost forgotten

thepurposeofthelunch.“Personally I don’t blame

you,” Borg said. “You canshiphimofftoChina,forallIcare. I’m justwondering if itisn’t going to be a bit trickyforyouifBlomkvistmakesagrand comeback with thisFransBalderstory.”

“Why would that happen?He’slosthissting.Youofallpeoplehavepointedthatout–and with considerablesuccess, if I may say so,”Levinsaidwithanattemptatsarcasm.“Well, yes, but I did get a

littlehelp.”“Not fromme, you didn’t;

of that you can be sure. Ihatedthatcolumn.Thoughtitwas badly written and

tendentious. The one whokicked off the campaignagainst him was ThorvaldSerner,youknowthat.”“But you can’t be

altogether unhappy about theway things are going rightnow?”“Listen to me, William. I

have the greatest respect forMikaelBlomkvist.”“Youdon’t have toputon

your politician act with me,

Ove.”Levin felt like ramming

something down Borg’sthroat.“I’m just being open and

honest,” he said. “And I’vealways thought Blomkvist afantastic reporter, of adifferent calibre to you andeveryone else of hisgeneration.”“Is that so?” Borg said,

suddenly looking meek, and

that made Levin feel betterrightaway.“That’s how it is. We

should be grateful toBlomkvist for the revelationshe’sgivenus,andIwishhimall the best, I really do. Butunfortunately it’s notmy jobtogetnostalgicandlookbackto the good old days. I haveto concede that you have apoint in suggesting that themanhas got out of stepwith

the times, and that he couldget in theway of your planstorelaunchMillennium.”“True,true.”“Soforthatreasonitwould

be good if there weren’t toomany headlines about himrightnow.”“Positive headlines, you

mean?”“Maybe so, yes,” Levin

said.“That’sanotherreasonIinvitedyoutolunch.”

“Grateful for that, ofcourse.AndIdothinkIhavesomething to offer. I had acallthismorningfrommyoldsquash buddy,” Borg said,clearly trying to regain hisearlierself-confidence.“Andwho’sthat?”“Richard Ekström, the

chief prosecutor. He’s incharge of the preliminaryinvestigation into the Balderkilling. And he’s not a

memberoftheBlomkvistfanclub.”“After that Zalachenko

business,right?”“Exactly. Blomkvist

scuppered his entire strategyon that case and now he’sworried that he’s sabotagingthisinvestigationaswell.”“Inwhatway?”“Blomkvist isn’t saying

everything he knows. Hespoke to Balder just before

themurder and came face tofacewith thekiller.Even so,he had surprisingly little tosay for himself during theinterviews. Ekström suspectshe’s saving the juiciest bitsforhisarticle.”“Interesting.”“Isn’t it? We’re talking

about a man who wasridiculed in themedia and isnowsodesperate forascoopthat he’s prepared to let

someone get away withmurder. An old star reporterwilling to cast socialresponsibility to the windswhen his magazine findsitselfinafinancialcrisis.Andwho has just learned thatSerner Media wants to kickhim off the editorial team.Hardly surprising that he’sgoneasteportwotoofar.”“I see your point. Is it

anything you’d like to write

about?”“I don’t think that would

be productive, to be honest.Too many people know thatBlomkvistandIhaveitinforeach other. You’d be betteroffleakingtoanewsreporterand thensupporting thestoryon your editorial pages.You’ll get somegoodquotesfromEkström.”Levinwaslookingoutonto

Stureplan,wherehespotteda

beautiful woman in a brightred coat, with longstrawberry-blonde hair. Forthefirsttimethatdayhegaveabigsmile.“Maybe that isn’t such a

badidea,”headded,orderingsomewineforhimselftoo.

Blomkvist came walkingdown Hornsgatan towardsMariatorget.Furtheraway,by

Maria Magdalena kyrka,therewasawhitevanwithanugly dent in its front wing,and next to it twomenwerewavingtheirarmsaroundandshouting at each other. Butalthough the scene hadattracted a crowd ofonlookers, Blomkvist hardlynoticedit.Hewasthinkingabouthow

Balder’s son had sat on thefloor of the large house in

Saltsjöbaden, reaching outover the Persian rug. Theboy’s hand had stains on thebackof itandon thefingers,possibly ink from felt tips orpens, and that movement hewasmaking had looked as ifhe were drawing somethingcomplicatedinmid-air,didn’tit? Blomkvistwas starting toseethewholesceneinanewlight.

Maybe it was not FransBalder who had drawn thetraffic light after all. Perhapsthe boy had an unexpectedgift.Forsomereasonthatdidnot surprise him as much ashemight have expected. Thefirst timehe hadmetAugustBalder, sitting by his deadfather,andseenhimthrowinghimself against theheadboard, he had alreadyunderstood that there was

something exceptional abouthim. Now, as he cut acrossMariatorget, a strangethought occurred to him andwouldnot let himgo.UpbyGötgatsbacken he came to astop.He must at the very least

followitup,sohegotouthismobile and looked upHannaBalder. The number wasunlisted, and unlikely to beone which he would find in

Millennium’s contacts. HethoughtofFrejaGranliden, asociety reporter atExpressenwhose columns could not besaid to enhance the prestigeof the profession. She wroteabout divorce, romance androyalty, but she had a quickbrain and a good line inrepartee, and whenever theymet they had a good timetogether.Heranghernumber,butitwasengagedofcourse.

These days, reporters onthe evening papers wereforever on the telephone,under such deadline pressurethattheyneverlefttheirdeskstotakealookatwhatreallifewaslike.Buthegotherintheend and was not in the leastsurprised that she let out alittleyelpofdelight.“Mikael,” she said, “what

an honour! Are you finallygoing to give me a scoop?

I’ve been waiting for solong.”“Sorry.Thistimeyouhave

tohelpme. Ineedanaddressandaphonenumber.”“What do I get in return?

Maybe awicked quote aboutwhat you got up to lastnight.”“I could give you some

careeradvice.”“Andwhatmightthatbe?”“Stopwritingcrap.”

“Right, and then who’sgoing tokeep trackofall thetelephonenumbers the classyreporters need?Who are youlookingfor?”“HannaBalder.”“I can imagine why. Did

you meet her drunkenboyfriendoutthere?”“Don’t you start fishing

now.Doyouknowwhereshelives?”“Torsgatan40.”

“You know it just likethat?”“Ihaveabrilliantmemory

fortrivia.Ifyouhangon,I’llgive you the phone numberand the front-door code aswell.”“That’sreallykind.”“Butyouknow…”“Yes?”“You’re not the only one

looking for her. Our ownbloodhounds are on the trail

too,andfromwhatIhearshehasn’t answered hertelephoneallday.”“Wisewoman.”Afterwards Blomkvist

stood in the street, unsurewhat to do. Chasing downunhappy mothers incompetition with crimereporters from the eveningpaperswasnotquitewhathehad hoped his day wouldbring.Buthehailedataxiand

wasdrivenoffinthedirectionofVasastan.

Hanna Balder hadaccompanied August andForsberg to Oden’s MedicalCentre for Children andAdolescents, oppositeObservatorielunden onSveavägen. The medicalcentre consisted of twoapartments which had been

knocked together, but eventhough the furnishings andthe courtyard had a privateand sheltered feel to them,there was nonethelesssomething institutional aboutit all. Probably that had lessto dowith the long corridorsand closed doors than thegrim and watchfulexpressions on the faces ofthe staff. They seemed tohave developed a certain

distrust of the children forwhomtheywereresponsible.The director, Torkel

Lindén,wasavainlittlemanwho claimed to have a wideexperience of children withautism. But Hanna did notlike the way he looked atAugust. Itwas also troublingthat there seemed to be noseparation between teenagersandsmallchildren.Butitfelttoo late to be having doubts

nowsoonthewayhomesheconsoled herself with thethought that itwouldonlybefor a short time. Maybe shewouldpickupAugustassoonasthisevening?Then she thought about

Lasse and his bouts ofdrunkenness and she toldherself yet again that sheneededtoleavehimandgetagrip on her life. As shewalked out of the lift at her

apartment she gave a start.Anattractivemanwassittingthere on the landing, writingin a notebook. As he got tohis feet and greeted her shesaw that it was MikaelBlomkvist. Shewas terrified,so guilt-ridden, that shesupposed he was going towrite some kind of exposé.Thatwasabsurd.Hejustgavean embarrassed smile andtwice apologized for

disturbingher.She couldnothelpbut feel ahuge senseofrelief. She had admired himforalongtime.“I have no comment to

make,” she said, in a voicewhich actually suggested theopposite.“I’m not after a quote

either,” he said. Sheremembered hearing that heand Lasse had arrivedtogether – or at least at the

same time – at Frans’ housethe previous night, althoughshe could not imagine whatthetwoofthemmighthaveincommon.“Are you looking for

Lasse?”shesaid.“I’d like to hear about

August’s drawings,” hereplied, and at that she felt astabofpanic.Yet she allowed him in. It

wasprobablycarelessofher.

Lassehadgoneofftocurehishangover in some local diveand could be back any time.He would go crazy if hefound a journalist in theirhome.ButBlomkvisthadnotonly worried Hanna, he hadalso made her curious. Howon earth did he know aboutthe drawings? She invitedhimtositonthegreysofainthe living room while shewent to the kitchen to get

some tea and biscuits.Whenshecamebackwitha trayhesaid:“I wouldn’t be bothering

you if it wasn’t absolutelynecessary.”“You’renotbotheringme,”

shesaid.“Yousee,ImetAugustlast

night,andIhaven’tbeenabletostopthinkingabouthim.”“Oh?”

“I didn’t understand itthen,”hesaid,“but Ihad thefeeling he was trying to tellus something. Now I’mconvincedhewantedtodraw.He was making thesedetermined movements withhishandoverthefloor.”“He’s become obsessed

withdrawing.”“Sohewent on doing that

hereathome?”

“And how! He started theminute we got here. He wasmanic,andwhathedrewwasamazing,buthisfacebecameflushedandhewasbreathingheavily, so the psychologistsaid he had to stop. It wascompulsive and destructive,washisopinion.”“Whatdidhedraw?”“Nothingspecialreally.I’d

guess it was inspired by hispuzzles. But it was very

cleverly done, with shadowsand perspective andeverything.”“Butwhatwasit?”“Squares.”“Whatkindofsquares?”“Chessboard squares, I

think you would call them,”she said. Maybe she wasimagining things, but shedetectedatraceofexcitementinBlomkvist’seyes.

“Only chess squares?” hesaid.“Nothingmore?”“Mirrors too,” she said.

“Chessboard squaresreflectedinmirrors.”“Have you been to Frans’

place?” he said, a newsharpnessinhisvoice.“Whydoyouask?”“Because thedesignof the

floorinthebedroom–wherehewaskilled–looksjustlikechessboard squares, and

they’re reflected in themirrorsofthewardrobe.”“OhmyGod!”“What’sthematter?”“Because…”A wave of shame washed

overher.“Because the last thing I

saw before I snatched thedrawing away from himwasamenacingshadowemergingout of those squares,” shesaid.

“Do you have the drawinghere?”“No,orratheryes.”“Yes?”“I’mafraidIthrewitaway.

Butitwillstillbeinthebin.”

Blomkvisthadcoffeegroundsandyoghurtalloverhishandsashepulledacrumpledpieceof paper out of the rubbishand smoothed it out on the

drainingboard.Hebrusheditoffwith thebackofhishandandlookedatitintheglareofthe kitchen lights. Thedrawingwasnotfinished,notby any means, and itconsisted mostly ofchessboard squares, just asHanna had said, seen fromabove or from the side.Unless you had been inBalder’s bedroom, it wouldnot be obvious that the

squares represented a floor,but Blomkvist immediatelyrecognizedthemirrorsonthewardrobe to the right of thebed. He also recognized thedarkness, that specialdarkness thathadmethim inthecourseofthenight.Hefelt transportedback to

the moment when he hadwalkedinthroughthebrokenwindow – apart from onesmall important detail. The

roomhehadenteredhadbeenalmost dark, whereas thedrawingshowedathinsourceof light falling diagonallyfrom above, extending outover the squares. It gavecontours to a shadow whichwas not distinct ormeaningful, but which felteerie, perhaps for that veryreason.Theshadowwasstretching

out an arm and Blomkvist,

who saw the drawing in averydifferent light toHanna,had no trouble interpretingwhat that signified. Thefigure meant to kill. Abovethe chessboard squares andthe shadow there was a facewhich had not yetmaterialized.“Where is August now?”

hesaid.“Ishesleeping?”“No. He … I’ve left him

with someone else for a

while. I couldn’thandlehim,tobehonest.”“Whereishe?”“AtOden’sMedicalCentre

forChildrenandAdolescents.OnSveavägen.”“Who knows that he’s

there?”“No-one.”“Justyouandthestaff?”Hannanodded.“Then it has to stay that

way.Willyouexcuseme for

amoment?”Blomkvist took out his

mobile and calledBublanski.In his mind he had alreadydrafted yet another questionforLISBETHSTUFF.

Bublanski felt frustrated: theinvestigation was goingnowhere. Neither Balder’sBlackphone nor his laptophad been found, so they had

not been able to map hiscontacts with the outsideworld, despite having haddetailed discussions with theserviceprovider.Forthetimebeingtheyhad

littlemorethansmokescreensand clichés to go on,Bublanski thought: a ninjawarrior had materializedswiftly and effectively andthen vanished into thedarkness. In fact the attack

hadsomethingfartooperfectabout it, as if it had beencarriedoutbyapersonfreeofall the usual human failingsandcontradictionswhichasarulefeatureinamurder.Thiswas too clean, too clinical,andBublanskicouldnothelpthinking that it had been justanother day at the office forthe killer. He was ponderingthis and more besides whenBlomkvistrang.

“Oh, it’s you,” Bublanskisaid. “We were just talkingaboutyou.We’dliketohaveanother word with you assoonaspossible.”“Ofcourse,notaproblem.

But right now I’ve gotsomething much moreimportant to tell you. Thewitness, August Balder, is asavant,”Blomkvistsaid.“Awhat?”

“A boy who may beseverely mentally disabledbut nonetheless has a specialgift. He draws like amaster,with a remarkablemathematical sharpness. Didsomeone show you thedrawings of the traffic lightwhich had been lying on thekitchen table inSaltsjöbaden?”“Yes, briefly. Are you

saying it wasn’t Balder who

drewthem?”“Itwastheboy.”“They looked like

astonishingly mature piecesofwork.”“But they were drawn by

August. This morning he satdown and drew thechessboard squares on thefloorinhisfather’sbedroom,andhedidn’tstopatthat.Hesketchedashaftoflightandashadow.Mytheoryisthatit’s

the killer’s shadow and thelight from his headlamp, butofcourseonecouldn’tyetsayfor certain. The boy wasinterruptedinhiswork.”“Areyoupullingmyleg?”“This is hardly the

moment.”“How do you know all

this?’“I’m at the home of the

boy’s mother, Hanna Balder,and I’m looking at the

drawing.Theboyisnolongerhere. He’s at …” Thejournalist hesitated. “I don’twant to say more than thatoverthetelephone.”“Yousay that theboywas

interrupted in the middle ofhisdrawing?”“His mother stopped him

onapsychologist’sadvice.”“How could one do

somethinglikethat?”

“Heprobablydidn’trealizewhat the drawingsrepresented,hejustsawthemas something compulsive. Isuggest you send somepeople over right away.You’vegotyourwitness.”“We’ll be there as soonas

wecanbe.”Bublanski ended the call

and went to shareBlomkvist’s news with theteam, though soon after he

wondered whether this hadbeenwise.

CHAPTER15

21.xi

Salander was at the RaucherChessClubonHälsingegatan.

She did not really feel likeplaying.Herheadwasaching–shehadbeenonthehuntallday long, but the hunt hadtaken her here. When sherealizedthatFransBalderhadbeen betrayed by one of hisown, he had made herpromise thatshewould leavethe traitoralone.Shehadnotapprovedthestrategy,butshehad kept her word, and onlynow that Balder had been

killeddidshefeelabsolvedofherpromise.Now she was going to

proceed on her own terms.But it was not all that easy.ArvidWrangehadnotbeenathome, and instead of callinghim she wanted to comedownonhislifelikeaboltoflightningandsohadbeenoutsearchingforhim,herhoodiepulledoverherhead.Wrangelived the life of a drone.But

aswithsomanyotherdrones,he had a routine, andSalander had been able tofind a number of signpoststhrough the trail of pictureshe posted on Instagram andFacebook: Riche on BirgerJarlsgatan and theTeatergrillen on Nybrogatan,the Raucher Chess Club andCafé Ritorno on Odengatanand a number of others,including a shooting club on

Fridhelmsgatan, plus theaddressesoftwogirlfriends.Wrangehadchanged since

the last time she had him onherradar.Notonlyhadhegotrid of his nerdy look. Hismorals were also at an ebb.Salander was not big onpsychological theory,but shecould see for herself that hisfirst major transgression hadled to a successionofothers.Wrange was no longer an

ambitious student, eager tolearn. Now he was addictedto porn and bought sexonline, violent sex. Two ofthe women had afterwardsthreatenedtoreporthim.Themanhadafairamount

ofmoney.Healsohadaloadof problems. As recently asthatmorninghehadGoogled“witnessprotectionSweden”,which was careless of him.Even though he was no

longer in contact withSolifon, at least not from hiscomputer,theywereprobablystillkeepinganeyeonhim.Itwould be unprofessional notto. Maybe he was beginningto crack up beneath the newurbane exterior, and thatserved Salander’s purpose.Whensheonceagainrangthechess club – chess being theonly apparent connectionwithhisformerlife–shewas

pleasantly surprised to hearthatWrange had just arrivedthere.So now she walked down

the small flight of steps onHälsingegatan and along acorridor to some shabbypremises where a motleycrowd of mostly older menwere sitting hunched overtheir chessboards. Theatmosphere was somnolent,and nobody seemed even to

notice her let alone questionher presence. They were allbusy with their games, andthe only soundwas the clickof the chess clocks and theoccasionalswearword.Therewere framed photographs ofKasparov, Magnus Carlsenand Bobby Fischer on thewalls and even one of apimply, teenaged ArvidWrangeplayingthechessstarJuditPolgár.

A different, older versionof him was sitting at a tablefurtherinandtotheright,andhe seemed to be trying outsome new opening. Next tohim were a couple ofshopping bags. He waswearing a yellow lambswoolsweater with a clean andironed white shirt and a pairofshinyEnglishshoes,alittletoo stylish for thesurroundings. Salander

approachedhimwithcareful,hesitantstepsandaskedifhewould like a game. Heresponded by looking her upand down, then he said,“O.K.”“Nice of you,” she replied

like a well-mannered younggirl, and sat down. SheopenedwithE4, he answeredwith B5, the Polish gambit,and then she closed her eyesandlethimplayon.

Wrange tried to concentrateon the game, but hewas notmanaging too well.Fortunatelythispunkgirlwasgoing to be easy pickings.She wasn’t bad, as it turnedout – she probably played alot–butwhatgoodwasthat?Hetoyedwithheralittle,andshe was bound to beimpressed. Who knows?Maybehecouldevengetherto come home with him

afterwards. True, she lookedstroppy, andWrange did notgoinforstroppygirls,butshehadnice titsandhemightbeable to take out hisfrustrations on her. It hadbeenadisasterofamorning.The news that Balder hadbeen murdered had flooredhim.Itwasn’t grief that he felt:

itwasfear.Wrangereallydidtry hard to convince himself

that he had done the rightthing.Whatdid thegoddamnprofessor expect when hetreated him as if he didn’texist? But of course itwouldn’t look good thatWrange had sold him downtheriver.Heconsoledhimselfwith the thought thatan idiotlike Balder must have madethousands of enemies, butdeep downhe knew: the one

eventwaslinkedtotheother,andthatscaredhimtodeath.Ever since Balder had

started working at Solifon,Wrange had been afraid thatthe drama would take afrightening new turn, andhere he was now, wishingthatitwouldalljustgoaway.Thatmusthavebeenwhyhewent into town this morningonacompulsivespreetobuya load of designer clothes,

andhadendeduphereat thechess club. Chess stillmanaged to distract him, andthe fact was that he wasfeelingbetteralready.Hefeltlike he was in control andsmart enough to keep onfoolingthemall.Lookathowhewasplaying.Thisgirlwasnothalf bad.

In fact there was somethingunorthodox and creative inher play, and she would

probably be able teach mostpeopleinhereathingortwo.It was just that he, ArvidWrange, was crushing her.His playwas so brilliant andsophisticatedthatshehadnoteven noticed he was on thebrink of trapping her queen.Stealthily he moved hispieces forward and snappedhers up without sacrificingmorethanaknight.Inaflirty,casual tonebound to impress

her he said, “Sorry, baby.Yourqueenisdown.”But he got nothing in

return, no smile, not aword,nothing. The girl upped thetempo,asifshewantedtoputa quick end to herhumiliation, and why not?He’d be happy to keep theprocessshortandtakeheroutfortwoorthreedrinksbeforehe pulled her. Maybe hewouldnotbeverynicetoher

inbed.Thechanceswerethatshe would still thank himafterwards. A miserable cuntlikeherwouldbeunlikely tohave had a fuck for a longtime and would be totallyunusedtoguyslikehim,coolguyswhoplayedatthislevel.Hedecided to showoff a bitand explain some higherchess theory. But he nevergotthechance.Somethingonthe board did not feel quite

right.His gamebegan to runinto some sort of resistancehe could not understand. Forawhilehepersuadedhimselfthat it was only hisimagination, perhaps theresult of a few carelessmoves. If only heconcentrated he would beable to put things right, andso he mobilized his killerinstinct.Butitonlygotworse.

He felt trapped – howeverhard he tried to regain theinitiativeshehitback–andintheendhehadnochoicebutto acknowledge that thebalanceofpowerhadshifted,and shifted irreversibly.Howcrazywasthat?Hehadtakenher queen, but instead ofbuildingonthatadvantagehehad landed in a fatally weakposition. Surely she had notdeliberately sacrificed her

queen so early in the game?That would be impossible –the sort of thing you readabout in books, it didn’thappen in your local chessclub in Vasastan, and itdefinitely wasn’t somethingthatpiercedpunkchickswithattitude problems did,especiallynottogreatplayerslike him. Yet there was noescape.

In four or five moves hewould be beaten and so hesaw no alternative but toknock over his kingwith hisindex finger and mumblecongratulations. Even thoughhewouldhave liked to serveup some excuses, somethingtoldhimthatthatwouldmakematters worse. He had asneaking feeling that hisdefeat was not just down tobad luck, and almost against

his will he began to feelfrightened again. Who thehellwasshe?Cautiouslyhelookedherin

the eye, and now she nolonger seemed like a stroppyand somewhat insecurenobody. Now she seemedcold – like a predator eyeingits prey.He felt deeply ill atease, as if the defeat on thechessboard were but aprelude to something much,

much worse. He glancedtowardsthedoor.“You’re not going

anywhere,”shesaid.“Whoareyou?”hesaid.“Nobodyspecial.”“So we haven’t met

before?”“Notexactly.”“Butnearly,isthatit?”“We’ve met in your

nightmares,Arvid.”

“Is this some kind ofjoke?”“Notreally.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“What do you think I

mean?”“HowshouldIknow?”He could not understand

whyhewassoscared.“Frans Balder was

murderedlastnight,”shesaidinamonotone.

“Well … yes … I readthat,”hestammered.“Terrible,isn’tit?”“Awful.”“Especiallyforyou,right?”“Whyespeciallyforme?”“Because you betrayed

him, Arvid. Because yougavehimthekissofJudas.”His body froze. “That’s

bullshit,”hespatout.“As a matter of fact it’s

not. I hacked your computer,

cracked your encryption andsawveryclearlythatyousoldonhis technology toSolifon.Andyouknowwhat?”He was finding it hard to

breathe.“I’msureyouwokeupthis

morning andwondered if hisdeath was your fault. I canhelp you there: it was yourfault. If you hadn’t been sogreedy and bitter andpathetic, Frans Balder would

be alive now. I should warnyou that’s making me prettyfucking angry, Arvid. I’mgoingtohurtyoubadly.Firstof all by making you sufferthe same sort of treatmentyouinflictonthewomenyoufindonline.”“Areyouinsane?”“Probably, yes,” she said.

“Empathy-deficit disorder.Excessive violence.Somethingalongthoselines.”

She gripped his handwithaforcewhichscaredhimoutofhiswits.“Arvid,doyouknowwhat

I’mdoingrightnow?Doyouknow why I seem a bitdistracted?”“No.”“I’m sitting here trying to

decide what to do with you.I’m thinking in terms ofsuffering of biblical

proportions.That’swhyI’mabitdistracted.”“Whatdoyouwant?”“Iwantrevenge–haven’tI

madethatclear?”“You’retalkingcrap.”“Definitelynot,andIthink

youknow it too.But there isawayout.”“WhatdoIhavetodo?”He could not understand

why he said it. What do Ihave to do? It was an

admission,acapitulation,andhe considered taking it back,putting pressure on herinstead, tosee ifshehadanyproof or if she was bluffing.But he could not bringhimself to do it. Only laterdid he realize that itwas notjustthethreatsshetossedoutortheuncannystrengthofherhands.It was the game of chess,

thequeensacrifice.Hewasin

shock, and something in hissubconscious told him that awoman who plays like thatmustalsoknowhissecrets.“WhatdoIhavetodo?”he

saidagain.“You’re going to follow

me out of here and you’regoing to tell me everything,Arvid. You’re going to tellme exactly what happenedwhen you sold out FransBalder.”

“It’s a miracle,” Bublanskisaidashestoodinthekitchenin Hanna Balder’s homelooking at the crumpleddrawingwhichBlomkvisthadpluckedoutoftherubbish.“Let’s not exaggerate,”

said Modig, who wasstanding right next to him.She was right. It was notmuch more than some chesssquares on a piece of paper,after all, and as Mikael

Blomkvist had pointed outover the telephone there wassomething strangelymathematicalaboutthework,as if the boy were moreinterested in the geometrythan in the threateningshadowabove.ButBublanskiwas excited all the same.Hehad been told over and overhow mentally impaired theBalderboywas,howlittlehewould be able to help them.

Nowtheboyhadproducedadrawing which gaveBublanski more hope thananything else in theinvestigation. It strengthenedhis long-held conviction thatonemustneverunderestimateanyone or cling topreconceivedideas.Theyhadnowayofbeing

sure that what August wasillustrating here was themoment of the murder. The

shadow could, at least intheory, be associated withsome other occasion, andthere was no guarantee thatthe boy had seen the killer’sfaceor thathewouldbeableto draw it. And yet deepdown that was whatBublanski believed. Not justbecause thedrawing, even inits present state, wasmasterful.Hehadstudiedtheother drawings too, inwhich

you could see, beyond thestreet crossingand the trafficlight,ashabbymanwiththinlipswhohadbeencaughtred-handed jaywalking, if youlooked at it purely from alaw-enforcement point ofview. He was crossing thestreet on a red, and AmandaFlod, another officer on theteam, had recognized himstraight away as the out-of-work actor Roger Winter,

who had convictions fordrink-drivingandassault.Thephotographicprecision

ofAugust’seyeoughttobeadream for any murderinvestigator. But Bublanskidid realize that it would beunprofessional to set hishopes too high. Maybe themurdererhadbeenmaskedatthe time of the killing or hisface had already faded fromthe child’s memory. There

weremanypossiblescenariosand Bublanski cast a glumlook in the direction ofModig.“Maybethisisjustwishful

thinkingonmypart,”hesaid.“For a man who’s

beginning to doubt theexistence of God, you seemto have no problem hopingformiracles.”“Well,maybe.”

“But it’s worth getting tothe bottom of. I agree withthat,”Modigsaid.“Good, in that case let’s

seetheboy.”Bublanski went out of the

kitchenandnoddedatHannaBalder,whowas sunk in theliving-room sofa, fumblingwithsometablets.

Lisbeth Salander and ArvidWrange came out intoVasaparkenarminarm,likeapair of old friends out for astroll. Appearances can bedeceptive: Wrange wasterrified as Salander steeredthem towards a park bench.The wind was getting upagain and the temperaturecreepingdown–itwashardlyadayforfeedingthepigeons– andWrangewas cold. But

Salander decided that thebench would do and forcedhim to sit down, holding hisarminavice-likegrip.“Right,” she said. “Let’s

makethisquick.”“Will you keep my name

outofit?”“I’m promising nothing,

Arvid. But your chances ofbeingabletogobacktoyourmiserable life will increasesignificantly if you tell me

every detail of whathappened.”“O.K.,” he said. “Do you

knowDarknet?”“Iknowit,”shesaid.No-one knewDarknet like

Lisbeth Salander. Darknetwas the lawless undergrowthoftheInternet.Theonlywayto access it was withespecially encryptedsoftware, and the user’sanonymity was guaranteed.

No-one could Google yourdetails or trace your activityon the web. So Darknet wasfullofdrugdealers,terrorists,con men, gangsters, illegalarmsdealers,pimpsandblackhats. If therewas an Internethell,thenthiswasit.But Darknet was not in

itself evil. Salanderunderstood that better thananyone. These days, whenspy agencies and the big

software companies followevery step we take online,even honest people can needa hiding place. Darknet wasalso a hub for dissidents,whistle-blowers andinformants.Oppositionforcescould protest on Darknet outof reachof theirgovernment,and Salander had used it forher own more discreetinvestigations and attacks.Sheknewitssitesandsearch

engines and its old-fashionedworkings far away from theknown,visiblenet.“Did you put Balder’s

technology up for sale onDarknet?”shesaid.“No, I was just casting

about. I was pissed off. Youknow,Franshardlyevensaidhello to me. He treated melike dirt, and he didn’t reallycareabout that technologyofhiseither.Ithadthepotential

tomakeallofusrich,butheonly wanted to play andexperimentwithitlikealittlekid. One evening when I’dhad a few drinks I justchucked out a question on ageeksite:‘Whocanpaygoodmoney for somerevolutionary A.I.technology?’“And did you get an

answer?”

“Ittookawhile.Ihadtimeto forget that I’d evenasked.But in the end someonecalling himself Bogey wroteback with some pretty well-informed questions. At firstmyanswerswereridiculouslyunguarded, but soon Irealized what a mess I’d gotmyself into, and I becameterrified that Bogey wouldstealthetechnology.”

“Without you gettinganythingforit.”“Itwas a dangerousgame.

To be able to sell Frans’technology I had to tellpeople about it. But if I saidtoo much then I wouldalready have lost it. Bogeyflattered me rotten – in theend he knew exactly wherewe were and what sort ofsoftware we were workingon.”

“Hemeanttohackyou.”“Presumably.Hesomehow

managed to get hold of myname, and that flooredme. Ibecame totally paranoid andannounced that I wanted topull out. But by then it wastoo late. Not that Bogeythreatened me, at least notdirectly.He justwentonandon about how he and I weregoing to do great thingstogether and earn masses of

money.IntheendIagreedtomeet him in Stockholm at aChinese boat restaurant onSöder Mälarstrand. It was awindyday,Iremember,andIstood there freezing. Iwaitedmore than half an hour, andafterwards I wondered if hehadbeencheckingmeout insomeway.”“Butthenheshowedup?”“Yes. At first I didn’t

believeitwashim.Helooked

likeajunkie,orabeggar,andif I hadn’t seen that PatekPhilippewatchonhiswrist Iprobably would have tossedhim twenty kronor. He hadamateur tattoos and dodgy-looking scars on his arms,which he waved about as hewalked.Hewaswearing thisawful-lookingtrenchcoatandheseemedtohavebeenmoreor less living on the streets.Thestrangestthingofallwas

thathewasproudofit.Itwasonly thewatchand thehand-made shoes which showedthat he had at some pointmanagedtolifthimselfoutofthegutter.Otherthanthat,heseemed keen to stick to hisroots. Later on, when I’dgivenhimeverythingandwewere celebrating our dealover a few bottles ofwine, Iaskedabouthisbackground.”

“I hope for your sake thathegaveyousomedetails.”“If you want to track him

down,Ihavetowarnyou…”“I don’t want advice,

Arvid.Iwantfacts.”“Fine.Hewascareful,”he

said. “But I still got a fewthings. He probably couldn’thelphimself.Hegrewupinabig city inRussia, thoughhedidn’t name it. He’d hadeverything stacked against

him,hesaid.Hismotherwasa whore and a heroin addictand his father could havebeenanybody.Asasmallboyhe had ended up in theorphanage from hell. Therewas some lunatic there, hetold me, who used to makehimlieonabutcher’sslabinthekitchenandwhippedhimwithabrokencane.Whenhewas eleven he ran away andlived on the street. He stole,

broke into cellars andstairwells to get a littlewarmth, got drunk on cheapvodka, sniffed glue and wasabused and beaten. But healsodiscoveredonething.”“What?”“That he had talent. He

wasanexpertatbreakingandentering, which became hisfirst source of pride, his firstidentity. He was capable ofdoing in just a few seconds

what took others hours.Before that he had been ahomeless brat, everyone haddespisedhimandspatathim.Now he was the boy whocouldgethimselfinwhereverhe wanted. It became anobsession. All day long hedreamed of being some sortof Houdini in reverse – hedidn’t want to break out, hewanted to break in. Hepractised for ten, twelve,

fourteen hours a day, and inthe end he was a legend onthestreets–orsohesaid.Hestarted to carry out biggeroperations, using computershe stole and reconfigured tohackineverywhere.Hemadea heap of money which heblew on drugs, and often hewas robbed or takenadvantage of. He could beclear as a bell when he wason one of his jobs, but

afterwards he would liearoundinanarcotichazeandsomeonewouldwalkalloverhim. He was a genius and atotalidiotatthesametime,hesaid. But one day everythingchanged. He was saved,raisedupoutofhishell.”“How?”“He had been asleep in

some dump of a place thatwas due to be pulled down,andwhenheopenedhiseyes

and looked around in theyellowish light there was anangelstandingbeforehim.”“Anangel?”“That’s what he said, an

angel, and maybe it waspartly the contrast witheverything else in there, thesyringes, the left-over food,the cockroaches.He said shewas the most beautifulwomanhehadever seen.Hecould scarcely look at her,

and he got this idea that hewas going to die. It was anominous,solemnfeeling.Butthewomanexplained,as if itwerethemostnaturalthinginthe world, that she wouldmake him rich and happy. IfI’ve understood it right, shekept her promise. She gavehim new teeth, got him intorehab. She arranged for himto train as a computerengineer.”

“So ever since he’s beenhacking computers andstealing for this woman andhernetwork.”“That’sright.Hebecamea

new person, or maybe notcompletely new – in manyways he’s still the same oldthief and bum. But he nolonger takes drugs, he says,and he spends all his freetimekeeping up to datewithnew technology. He finds a

lotonDarknetandheclaimstobestinkingrich.”“And thewoman – did he

say anything more abouther?”“No, he was extremely

careful about that. He spokeinsuchevasiveandrespectfulterms that I wondered for awhile if shewasn’t a fantasyorhallucination.ButIreckonshe really does exist. I couldsense sheer physical fear

when he was talking abouther – he said that he wouldrather die than let her down,and then he showed me aRussian patriarchal crossmadeofgold,which shehadgiven him. One of thosecrosses,youknow,whichhasa slanted beam down by thefoot,oneendpointingupandthe other down. He told methis was a reference to theGospel according to St Luke

andthetwothieveswhowerehanged next to Jesus on thecross. The one thief believesin Jesus and goes to heaven.The other mocks him and isthrustdownintohell.”“That’swhatawaitsyou if

youfailher.”“That’saboutit,yes.”“So she sees herself as

Jesus?”“In this context the cross

probably has almost nothing

to do with Christianity. It’sthemessageshewantstopasson.”“Loyaltyorthetormentsof

hell.”“Something along those

lines.”“Yet you’re sitting here,

Arvid,spillingthebeans.”“I didn’t see an

alternative.”“Ihopeyougotpaidalot.”“Well,yes…”

“And then Balder’stechnology was sold toSolifonandTruegames.”“Yes, but I don’t get it…

notwhenIthinkofitnow.”“Whatdon’tyouget?”“How could you know all

this?”“Because you were dumb

enough to send an email toEckerwald at Solifon, don’tyouremember?”

“But I wrote nothing tosuggest that I’d sold thetechnology. I was verycarefulaboutthat.”“What you said was

enoughforme,”shesaid.Shegottoherfeet,anditwasasifhisentirebeingcollapsed.“Wait, what’s going to

happen now? Will you keepmeoutofthis?”“You can always hope,”

she said, and walked off

towards Odenplan withpurposefulsteps.

Bublanski’s mobile rang ashe was on his way down tothe front entrance onTorsgatan. It was ProfessorEdelman.Bublanskihadbeentryingtoreachhimeversinceherealizedthattheboywasasavant. Bublanski had foundout online that two Swedish

authorities were regularlyquoted on this subject: LenaEk at Lund University andCharles Edelman at theKarolinska Institute. But hehadnotbeenable togetholdofeither,sohehadpostponedthesearchandgoneofftoseeHannaBalder.NowEdelmanwas ringing back, and hesounded shaken. He was inBudapest, he said, at aconference on heightened

memorycapacity.Hehadjustarrived there and seen thenews about the murder amomentago,onC.N.N.“Otherwise I would have

got in touch right away,” hesaid.“Whatdoyoumean?”“Professor Balder rangme

yesterdayevening.”That made Bublanski

jump.“Whatdidhewant?”

“He wanted to talk abouthissonandhisson’stalent.”“Did you know each

other?”“Not in the slightest. He

contactedmebecausehewasworried about his boy, and Iwas stunned to hear fromhim.”“Why?”“Because it was Frans

Balder. He’s a householdname to us neurologists.We

tend to say he’s like us inwanting to understand thebrain. The only difference isthat he also wants to buildone.”“I’ve heard something

aboutthat.”“I’d been told that he was

an introverted and difficultman. A bit like a machinehimself, people sometimesused to joke: nothing butlogiccircuits.Butwithmehe

wasincrediblyemotional,anditshockedme,tobehonest.Itwas … I don’t know, as ifyou were to hear yourtoughest policeman cry. Iremember thinking thatsomething must havehappened, something otherthan what we were talkingabout.”“Thatsoundsright.Hehad

finally accepted that he was

under a serious threat,”Bublanskisaid.“Buthealsohad reason to

be excited. His son’sdrawings were apparentlyexceptionallygood,andthat’snotcommonatallatthatage,not even with savants, andespeciallynot incombinationwith proficiency inmathematics.”“Mathematics?”

“Yes indeed. From whatBalder said his son hadmathematical skills too. Icould spend a long timetalkingaboutthat.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Because I was utterly

amazed,andatthesametimemaybe not so amazed afterall.Wenowknowthatthere’sahereditaryfactorinsavants,and here we have a fatherwhoisalegend,thankstohis

advancedalgorithms.Butstill… artistic and numericaltalentsdonotusuallypresentthemselves together in thesechildren.”“Surely the great thing

about life is that every nowand then it springs a surpriseonus,”Bublanskisaid.“True, Chief Inspector. So

whatcanIdoforyou?”Bublanski thought through

everything thathadhappened

in Saltsjöbaden and it struckhimthatitwoulddonoharmtobecautious.“All I can say is that we

need your help and expertknowledge as a matter ofurgency.”“Theboywasawitness to

themurder,washenot?”“Yes.”“Andyouwantmetotryto

get him to draw what hesaw?”

“I’d prefer not tocomment.”

Professor Edelman wasstanding in the lobby of theHotelBoscolo inBudapest,aconference centre not farfrom the glittering Danube.The place looked like anopera house, withmagnificent high ceilings,old-fashioned cupolas and

pillars. He had been lookingforwardtotheweekhere,thedinnersandthepresentations.Yet he was agitated and ranhisfingersthroughhishair.“UnfortunatelyI’mnotina

positiontohelpyou.Ihavetogive an important lecturetomorrow morning,” he hadsaid to Bublanski, and thatwastrue.He had been preparing the

talk for some weeks and he

was going to take acontroversiallinewithseveraleminentmemory experts.Herecommended an associateprofessor,MartinWolgers,toBublanski.Butas soonashehungup

and exchanged looks withLena Ek – Lena had pausednext to him, holding asandwich–hebegan tohaveregrets. He even began toenvy youngMartinWolgers,

who was not yet thirty-five,alwayslookedfartoogoodinphotographs,andon topof itall was beginning to make anameforhimself.It was true that Edelman

didnotfullyunderstandwhathad happened. The policeinspector had been crypticand was probably worriedthat someone might belistening in on the call. Yettheprofessorstillmanagedto

grasp the bigger picture. Theboywasgoodatdrawingandwaswitnesstoamurder.Thatcould mean only one thing,and the longer Edelmanthought about it themore hefretted. He would be givingmanymoreimportantlecturesinhislife,buthewouldneverget another chance to play apartinamurderinvestigationat this level. However helooked at the assignment he

had so casually passed on toWolgers, it was bound to bemuch more interesting thananything he might beinvolvedinhereinBudapest.Who knows? It could evenmake him some sort ofcelebrity.Hevisualised theheadline:

PROMINENTNEUROLOGIST HELPSPOLICE SOLVEMURDER, or better still:

EDELMAN’S RESEARCHLEADS TOBREAKTHROUGH INMURDER HUNT. Howcouldhehavebeensostupidas to turn it down? He tookout his mobile and calledChiefInspectorBublanski.

Bublanski and Modig hadmanagedtoparknotfarfromtheStockholmPublicLibrary

and had just crossed thestreet.Onceagaintheweatherwas dreadful, andBublanski’s hands werefreezing.“Didhechangehismind?”

Modigsaid.“Yes.He’sgoingtoshelve

hislecture.”“Whencanhebehere?”“He’s looking into it.

Tomorrow morning at thelatest.”

Theywereon theirway toOden’s Medical Centre onSveavägen to meet thedirector, Torkel Lindén. Themeeting was only meant tosettle the practicalarrangements for AugustBalder’s testimony – at leastas far as Bublanski wasconcerned. But even thoughLindén did not yet know thetruepurposeof theirvisit,hehad been strangely

discouraging over thetelephone and said that rightnow the boy was not to bedisturbed “in any way”.Bublanski had sensed aninstinctive hostility and wasnot particularly pleasant inreturn. It had not been apromisingstart.Lindénturnedoutnottobe

the hefty figure Bublanskihad expected.Hewas hardlymore than 150 centimetres

tall and had short, possiblydyed black hair and pinchedlips. He wore black jeans, ablack polo-necked sweaterandasmallcrossonaribbonaround his neck. There wassomething ecclesiasticalabout him, and his hostilitywasgenuine.Hehadahaughtylookand

Bublanski became aware ofhis own Jewishness – whichtended to happen whenever

he encountered this sort ofmalevolenceandairofmoralsuperiority.Lindénwantedtoshow that he was better,because he put the boy’sphysical well-being firstrather than offering him upfor police purposes.Bublanski saw no choice buttobeasamiableaspossible.“Pleased to meet you,” he

said.“Isthatso?”Lindénsaid.

“Oh yes, and it’s kind ofyou to see us at such shortnotice. We really wouldn’tcome barging in like this ifwe didn’t think this matterwas of the utmostimportance.”“I imagine you want to

interview the boy in someway.”“Not exactly,” Bublanski

said,notquite soamiably.“Ihave toemphasizefirstofall

that what I’m saying nowmust remain strictly betweenus. It’s a question ofsecurity.”“Confidentiality is a given

forus.Wehavenolooselipshere,”Lindén said, in such away as to imply that it wastheoppositewiththepolice.“Myonlyconcernisforthe

boy’s safety,”Bublanski saidsharply.“Sothat’syourpriority?”

“As amatter of fact, yes,”thepolicemansaidwithevengreater severity. “And that iswhy nothing of what I’mabout to tell you must bepassedon in anyway– leastof all by email or bytelephone. Can we sitsomewhereprivate?”

Sonja Modig did not thinkmuch of the place. But then

shewasprobablyaffectedbythe crying. Somewherenearby a little girl wassobbing relentlessly. Theywere sitting in a roomwhichsmelledofdetergentandalsoof something else, maybe alingering trace of incense. Across hung on the wall andthere was a worn teddy bearlyingonthefloor.Therewasnot much else to make theplace cosy or attractive, and

since Bublanski, usually sogood-natured, was about tolose his temper, she tookmatters into her own handsand gave a calm, factualaccount of what had takenplace.“We are given to

understand,” she said, “thatyour colleague, EinarForsberg, said that Augustshould not be allowed todraw.”

“Thatwas his professionaljudgementandIagreewithit.It doesn’t do the boy anygood,”Lindénsaid.“Well, I don’t see how

anything could do himmuchgood under thesecircumstances. He probablysawhisfatherbeingkilled.”“But we don’t want to

make things any worse, dowe?”

“True. But the drawingAugust was not allowed tofinish could lead to abreakthrough in theinvestigation and thereforeI’m afraid we must insist.You can of course ensurethere are people presentwiththenecessaryexpertise.”“Istillhavetosayno.”Modigcouldhardlybelieve

herears.

“With all due respect foryour work,” Lindén went ondoggedly,“hereatOden’swehelp vulnerable children.That’s our job and ourcalling. We’re not anextensionof thepolice force.That’s how it is, and we’reproudofit.Foraslongasthechildrenarehere,theyshouldfeel confident that we puttheirinterestsfirst.”

Modig laid a restraininghandonBublanski’sthigh.“Wecaneasilygetacourt

order,” she said, “but we’dprefernottogothatroute.”“Wiseofyou.”“Let me ask you

something,” she said. “Areyou and Forsberg soabsolutely sure what’s bestfor August, or for the girlcrying over there, for thatmatter?Couldn’titbeinstead

that we all need to expressourselves?YouandIcantalkor write, or even go out andget a lawyer.August doesn’thave those means ofcommunication. But he candraw,andheseemstowanttotell us something. Shouldn’twe let him give form tosomething which must betormentinghim?”“Inourjudgement—”

“No,” she cut him off.“Don’t tell us about yourjudgement. We’re in contactwith the person who knowsmorethananyoneelseinthiscountry about this particularcondition. His name isCharles Edelman, he’s aprofessor of neurology andhe’s on his way here fromHungarytomeettheboy.”“Wecanofcourselistento

him,”Lindénsaidreluctantly.

“Notjustlisten.Welethimdecide.”“I promise to engage in a

constructive dialogue,betweenexperts.”“Fine. What’s August

doingnow?”“He’s sleeping. He was

exhausted when he came tous.”Modig could tell that

nothinggoodwould comeof

itwereshetosuggestthattheboybewokenup.“In that case we’ll come

back tomorrowmorningwithProfessorEdelman, and I amsure we will all be able toworktogetheronthismatter.”

CHAPTER16

21.xi–22.xi

Gabriella Grane buried herfaceinherhands.Shehadnot

been to bed for forty hoursandshewasrackedbyadeepsense of guilt, only madeworse by the lack of sleep.Yet she had been workinghard all day long. Since thismorningshehadbeenpartofa team at Säpo – a sort ofshadow unit – which wasinvestigating in secret everydetail of the Frans Baldermurder, under cover of

lookingintobroaderdomesticpolicyimplications.Superintendent Mårten

Nielsenwas formally leadingthe team and had recentlyreturnedfromayearofstudyattheUniversityofMarylandin the U.S. He wasundoubtedly intelligent andwell informed, but too right-wing for Grane’s tastes. Itwas rare to find a well-educated Swede who was

alsoawholeheartedsupporterof the American RepublicanParty – he even expressedsome sympathy for the TeaParty movement. He waspassionate about militaryhistory and lectured at theMilitary Academy. Althoughstill young– thirty-nine – hewas believed to haveextensive internationalcontacts.

He often had trouble,however,assertinghimself inthegroup,andinpracticethereal leader was RagnarOlofsson,whowasolderandcockier and could silenceNielsen with one peevishlittle sigh or a displeasedwrinkle above his bushyeyebrows.NorwasNielsen’slife made any easier by thefact that Detective InspectorLarsÅkeGrankvistwas also

ontheteam.BeforejoiningtheSecurity

Service,Grankvisthadbeenasemi-legendary investigatorin the Swedish police’sNational Murder Squad, atleast in thesense thathewassaid to be able to drinkanybody else under the tableandtomanage,withasortofboisterous charm, to keep alover in every town. It wasnotaneasy team inwhich to

hold one’s own, and Granekept an ever lower profile asthe afternoon wore on. Butthiswas due less to themenand their macho rivalry thanto a growing sense ofuncertainty.Sometimesshewonderedif

shekneweven lessnowthanbefore. She realized, forexample, that therewas littleor no proof to support thetheory of the suspected data

breach. All they had was astatement fromStefanMoldeattheN.D.R.E.,andnotevenhe had been sure ofwhat hewas saying. In her view hisanalysis was more or lessrubbish. Balder seemed tohave relied primarily on thefemale hacker he had turnedto for help, the woman noteven named in theinvestigation, but whom hisassistant,LinusBrandell,had

describedinsuchvividterms.It was likely that Balder hadbeen withholding a lot fromGrane before he left forAmerica.For example, was it a

coincidencethathehadfoundajobatSolifon?The uncertainty gnawed at

her and she was indignantthatnohelpwascomingfromFort Meade. She could notget hold of Alona Casales,

and the N.S.A. was onceagain a closed door, and soshe in turn was no longerpassingonanynews.JustlikeNielsen and Grankvist, shefound herself overshadowedbyOlofsson.He kept gettinginformation from his sourceat the Violent CrimesDivision and immediatelypassingitontoHelenaKraft.Granedidnotlikeit,andin

vainshehadpointedout that

thistrafficnotonlyincreasedthe risk of a leak but alsoseemed to be costing themtheirindependence.Insteadofsearchingtheirownchannels,they were all too slavishlyrelying on the informationwhich flowed in fromBublanski’steam.“We’re like people

cheating in an exam,waitingfor someone to whisper theanswerinsteadofthinkingfor

ourselves,” she had said tothewhole team, and this hadnotmadeherpopular.Now shewas alone in her

office, determined to moveahead on her own, trying tosee the bigger picture. Itmightgethernowhere,butontheotherhanditwoulddonoharm.Sheheardstepsoutsideinthecorridor,theclick-clackof determined high heelswhich Grane by now

recognized only too well. Itwas Kraft, who came inwearing a grey Armanijacket, her hair pulled into atight bun. Kraft gave her anaffectionate look.Thereweretimes when Grane resentedthisfavouritism.“How’s it going?” Kraft

said.“Areyousurviving?”“Justabout.”“I’m going to send you

home after this conversation.

You have to get some sleep.We need an analyst with aclearhead.”“Soundssensible.”“Do you knowwhat Erich

MariaRemarquesaid?”“That it’s notmuch fun in

thetrenches,orsomething.”“Ha, no, that it’s always

the wrong people who havethe guilty conscience. Thosewhoarereallyresponsibleforsuffering in the world

couldn’t care less. It’s theones fighting for good whoare consumed by remorse.You’ve got nothing to beashamed of, Gabriella. Youdidwhatyoucould.”“I’mnotsosureaboutthat.

Butthanksanyway.”“Have you heard about

Balder’sson?”“Just very quickly from

Ragnar.”

“At 10.00 tomorrowmorning Chief InspectorBublanski, DetectiveSergeant Modig and aProfessor Edelman will beseeing the boy at Oden’sMedical Centre for Childrenand Adolescents, onSveavägen. They’re going totryandgethimtodrawsomemore.”“I’ll keep my fingers

crossed. But I’m not too

happytoknowaboutit.”“Relax, leave the paranoia

to me. The only ones whoknow about this are peoplewho can keep their trapsshut.”“Isupposeyou’reright.”“I want to show you

something. There arephotographs of themanwhohacked Balder’s burglaralarm.”

“I’ve seen them already.I’ve even studied them indetail.”“Have you?” Kraft said,

handingoveranenlargedandblurredpictureofawrist.“Whataboutit?”“Take another look. What

doyousee?”Grane lookedandsawtwo

things: the luxury watch shehadnotedbeforeand,beneathit, barely distinguishable

between the glove and thejacket cuff, a couple of lineswhich looked like amateurtattoos.“Contrasts,” she said.

“Some cheap tattoos and averyexpensivewatch.”“More than that,” Kraft

said. “That’s a 1951 PatekPhilippe, model 2499, firstseries,orjustpossiblysecondseries.”“Meansnothingtome.”

“It’s one of the finestwristwatches in theworld.Afew years ago a watch likethis sold at auction atChristie’s in Geneva for justovertwomilliondollars.”“Areyoukidding?”“No, and it wasn’t just

anyonewhobought it. ItwasJanvanderWaal,alawyeratDackstone&Partner.Hebidforitonbehalfofaclient.”

“Dackstone & Partner?Don’t they representSolifon?”“Correct. We don’t know

whether the watch in thesurveillance image is theonethatwas sold inGeneva, andwe haven’t been able to findout who that client was. Butit’s a start, Gabriella. Ascrawny type who looks likea junkie and who wears a

watch of this calibre – thatshouldnarrowthefield.”“Does Bublanski know

this?”“Itwashistechnicalexpert

Jerker Holmberg whodiscovered it. Now I wantyouandyouranalyticalbrainto take it further. Go home,getsomesleepandgetstartedonitinthemorning.”

The man who called himselfJan Holtser was sitting athome in his apartment onHögbergsgatan in Helsinki,notfarfromEsplanadenpark,looking through an album ofphotographs of his daughterOlga, who was now twenty-twoandstudyingmedicineinGdansk.Olgawastallanddarkand

intenseand,ashehadahabitof saying, the best thing that

ever happened to him. Notjust because it sounded good– he believed it. But nowOlga had come to suspectwhathewasactuallydoing.“Are you protecting evil

people?” she had asked himoneday,beforeembarkingona manic pursuit of what shecalledhercommitmenttothe“weakandvulnerable”.Itwaspurepinkoleft-wing

lunacy, in Holtser’s opinion,

not at all in keeping withOlga’scharacter.Hesawitasher attempt to stake out herindependence. Behind all thetalk about beggars and thesick he thought she was stillquite like him. Once upon atime Olga had been apromising 100-metre runner.Shewas186centimetres tall,muscular and explosive, andintheolddaysshehadlovedwatching action films and

listening to him reminisceabout the war in Chechnya.Everyone at school hadknown better than to pick afight with her. She hit back,like a warrior. Olga wasdefinitely not cut out tominister to the sick anddegenerate.Yetsheclaimedtowantto

work for Médecins SansFrontières or go off toCalcutta like some Mother

Teresa.Holtsercouldnotbearthe thought. The worldbelongstothestrong,hefelt.But he loved his daughter,however daft some of herideas, and tomorrow shewascoming home for the firsttime in sixmonths for a fewdays’ leave. He solemnlyresolved that he would be abetter listener this time, andnot pontificate about Stalin

and great leaders andeverythingthatshehated.He would instead try to

bring them closer again. Hewas certain that she neededhim. At least he was prettysure that he needed her. Itwas 8.00 in the evening andhewent into the kitchen andpressed three oranges andpouredSmirnoff intoaglass.It was his third Screwdriverof the day. Once he had

finished a job he could putaway six or seven of them,andmaybe he would do thatnow. He was tired, weigheddownbyalltheresponsibilitylaid on his shoulders, and heneeded to relax. For a fewminutes he stood with hisdrink in his hand anddreamedaboutadifferentsortof life. But the man whocalled himself Jan Holtserhadsethishopestoohigh.

ThetranquillitycametoanabruptendasBogdanovrangonhissecuremobile.AtfirstHoltserhoped thatBogdanovjustwantedtochat,toreleasesome of the excitement thatcamewith every assignment.Buthiscolleaguewascallingabout a very specific matterandsoundedlessthanhappy.“I’ve spoken to T.,” he

said.Holtserfeltanumberof

things all at once, jealousyperhapsmostofall.Why did Kira ring

Bogdanovandnothim?Evenif it was Bogdanov whobroughtinthebigmoney,andwas rewarded accordingly,Holtser had always beenconvincedthathewastheonecloser to Kira. But Holtserwas also worried. Hadsomething gone wrong afterall?

“Is there a problem?” hesaid.“Thejobisn’tfinished.”“Whereareyou?”“Intown.”“Come on up in that case

andexplainwhatthehellyoumean.”“I’ve booked a table at

Postres.”“I don’t feel like going to

some posh restaurant. Getyourselfoverhere.”

“Ihaven’teaten.”“I’llfrysomethingup.”“Soundsgood.We’vegota

longnightaheadofus.”

Holtser did not want anotherlong night. Still less did hefeel like telling his daughterthathewouldnotbeathomethe next day. But he had nochoice.Heknewas surelyas

he knew that he loved Olga:youcouldnotsaynotoKira.Shewieldedsomeinvisible

power and however hard hetried he could never be asdignified in her presence ashe wanted. She reduced himto a little boy and often heturnedhimself insideout justtoseehersmile.Kira was staggeringly

beautiful and knew how tomake the most of it like no

other beauty before her. Shewasunmatchedwhenitcametopowergames;sheknewallthe moves. She could beweak and needy when itsuited, but also indomitable,hard and cold as ice, andsometimesplainevil.Nobodybroughtout the sadist inhimlikeshedid.She may not have been

intelligentintheconventionalsense, andmanypointed that

out to try to takeherdownapeg or two. But the samepeoplewere still stupefied inher presence. Kira playedthem like a violin and couldreduce even the toughest ofmentoblushingandgigglingschoolchildren.

It was 9.00 and Bogdanovwas sitting next to himshovelling in the lamb chop

Holtser had prepared. Oddlyenough his table mannerswere almost passable. Thatmay have been Kira’sinfluence. In many waysBogdanov had become quitecivilized–andthenagainnot.However he tried to put onairs, he could never entirelyridhimselfof theappearanceof the petty thief and speedaddict.Hehadbeenoffdrugsfor ages andwas a computer

engineer with universityqualifications,butstilllookedravagedbystreetlife.“Where’s your bling

watch?” Holtser said. “Areyouinthedoghouse?”“Webothare.”“It’sthatbad?”“Maybenot.”“Thejobisn’tfinished,you

said?”“No,it’sthatboy.”

“Which boy?” Holtserpretendednottounderstand.“The one you so nobly

spared.”“What about him? He’s a

retard,youknow.”“Maybe so, but he can

draw.”“What do you mean,

draw?”“He’sasavant.”“Awhat?”

“You should try readingsomething other than yourfucking gun magazines foronce.”“What are you talking

about?”“It’s someone who’s

autistic or handicapped insomeotherway,butwhohasa special gift. This boy maynot be able to talk or thinklike a normal person, but hehas a photographic memory.

The police think the littlebastard isgoing tobeable todraw your face, and thenthey’re going to run itthrough their facial-recognition software, andthen you’re screwed, aren’tyou? You must be theresomewhere in Interpol’srecords?”“Yes,butKiracan’texpect

usto—”

“That’s exactly what sheexpects. We have to fix theboy.”A wave of emotion and

confusion washed overHoltser and once again hesaw before him that empty,glassy look from the doublebedwhichhadmadehimfeelsouncomfortable.“The hell I will,” he said,

withoutreallybelievingit.

“I know you’ve gotproblems with children. Idon’t like it either. But wecan’tavoidthisone.Besides,you should be grateful. Kiracould just as easily havesacrificedyou.”“Isupposeso.”“Then it’s settled. I’ve got

the plane tickets in mypocket. We’ll take the firstflight in the morning toArlanda, at 6.30, and then

we’regoingtosomeplaceonSveavägen called Oden’sMedical Centre for ChildrenandAdolescents.”“Sotheboy’sinaclinic.”“Yes, and that’s why we

need to do some planning.Letmejustfinisheating.”The man who called

himselfJanHoltserclosedhiseyes and tried to figure outwhat hewas going to say toOlga.

Salanderwasupat5.00inthemorning and hacked into theN.S.F. Major ResearchInstitutesupercomputerattheNew Jersey Institute ofTechnology – she needed allthe mathematical skills shecould muster. Then she gotout her own program forelliptic curve factorizationandsetaboutcrackingthefileshehaddownloadedfromtheN.S.A.

Buthoweverhardshetried,she couldnotmanage it.Shehadnotreallybeenexpectingto do so. It was asophisticated encryption,named after the originatorsRivest,ShamirandAdleman.R.S.A. has two keys – onepublic, one secret – and isbasedonEuler’sphi functionand Fermat’s little theorem,but above all on the simplefactthatitiseasytomultiply

two large prime numbers. Acalculator will give you theanswerintheblinkofaneye.Yet it isallbut impossible towork backwards and, on thebasisof theanswer,calculatethe prime numbers youstarted out with. Computersarenotyetefficientatprime-number factorization,something which hadexasperated Lisbeth Salanderand the world’s intelligence

organizations many times inthepast.For about a year now

Salander had been thinkingthat E.C.M., the EllipticCurve Method, would bemorepromisingthanpreviousalgorithms,andshehadspentlong nights writing her ownfactorization program. Butnow,intheearlyhoursofthemorning, she realized itwould need more refinement

to have even the slightestchanceofsuccess.Afterthreehours of work, she took abreakandwenttothekitchen,drank some orange juicestraight from the carton andatetwomicrowavedpiroshki.Back at her desk she

hacked into Blomkvist’scomputer to see if he hadcome up with anything new.He had posted two morequestions for her and she

realizedatonce:hewasn’tsohopelessafterall.

<Which of Frans Balder’sassistants betrayed him?> hewrote.Andthatwasareasonablequestion.But she did not answer.

ShecouldnotcarelessaboutArvid Wrange. And she hadmade progress and workedout who the hollow-eyedjunkie was, themanWrangehad been in touchwith,who

had called himself Bogey.Trinity in Hacker Republicremembered somebody withthat same handle from anumber of sites some yearspreviously. That did notnecessarily mean anything –Bogey was not the mostoriginal alias. But Salanderhad traced the posts andthought she could be ontosomething – especially whenhecarelesslydropped thathe

was a computer engineerfromMoscowUniversity.Salander was unable to

find out when he graduated,or any other dates for thatmatter, but she got hold of acoupleofnerdydetails abouthow Bogey was hooked onfinewatchesandcrazyfortheArsène Lupin films from the’70s, about the gentlemanthiefofthatname.

Then Salander postedquestions on everyconceivable website forformerandcurrentstudentsatMoscowUniversity,askingifanybody knew a scrawny,hollow-eyed ex-junkie whohad been a street urchin andmasterthiefandlovedArsèneLupin films. It was not longbeforeshegotareply.“That sounds like Jurij

Bogdanov,” wrote someone

who introduced herself asGalina.According to this Galina,

Bogdanovwasalegendattheuniversity. Not just becausehe had hacked into all thelecturers’ computers and haddirtoneveryoneofthem.Hewas always asking people:will youbetmeonehundredroublesIcan’tbreakintothathouseoverthere?

Many who did not knowhim thought this was easymoney. But Jurij could pickanydoorlock,andifforsomereason he failed he wouldshin up the facade or thewalls instead.Hewasknownfor his daring, and for hisevil. He was said once tohave kicked a dog to deathwhen it disturbed him in hiswork and he was alwaysstealing things, just for the

hell of it. Galina thought hemight have been akleptomaniac. But he wasalso a genius hacker and atalented analyst, and after hegraduated the world was hisoyster.Hedidnotwantajob,hewantedtogohisownway,he said, and it did not takeSalander long to work outwhat he got up to afteruniversity–atleastaccordingtotheofficialversion.

Jurij Bogdanov was nowthirty-four years old. He hadleftRussiaandlivedinBerlinonBudapesterStrasse,notfarfrom the Michelin-starredrestaurant Hugo’s. He ran awhite-hat computer securitybusiness–OutcastSecurity–with seven employees and aturnover in the last financialyear of twenty-two millioneuros. It was ironic – yetsomehow entirely logical –

thathis frontwasacompanywhich protected industrialgroups from people likehimself. He had not had anycriminal convictions since hetook his exams in 2009 andmanaged a wide network ofcontacts – one of themembers of his board ofdirectorswas IvanGribanov,memberoftheRussianDumaand a major shareholder inthe oil company Gazprom –

but shecould findnothing togetherfurther.Blomkvist’s second

questionwas:<Oden’s Medical Centre onSveavägen: is it safe?(Delete this as soon as youread it)>Hedidnotexplainwhyhe

was interested in the place.But sheknew thatBlomkvistwas not someone who threwquestionsoutat random.Nor

didhemakeahabitofbeingunclear.If he was being cryptic,

then he had a reason to be:the information must besensitive. There wasevidently somethingsignificantabout thismedicalcentre. Salander soondiscovered that it hadattracted a number ofcomplaints – children hadbeenforgottenorignoredand

had been able to self-harm.Oden’s was managedprivately by its director,Torkel Lindén, and hiscompanyCareMeand,ifonewas to believe pastemployees, Lindén’s wordwas law. The profit marginwas always high becausenothing was bought unlessabsolutelynecessary.Lindén himself was a

former star gymnast, among

other things a one-timeSwedish high-bar champion.Nowadays he was apassionate hunter andmember of a Christiancongregation that took anuncompromising line onhomosexuality.Salanderwentonto the websites of theSwedish Association forHunting and WildlifeManagement and the FriendsofChristtoseewhatkindsof

activitiesweregoingonthere.Then she sent Lindén twofake but enticing emailswhich looked as if they hadcome from theorganizations,attaching PDF files withsophisticated malware whichwould open automatically ifLindén clicked on themessages.By 8.23 she had got onto

the server and immediatelyconfirmed her suspicions.

August Balder had beenadmitted to the clinic theprevious afternoon. In themedical file, underneath adescription of thecircumstances which hadresulted in his admittance, itsaid:

Infantile autism, severemental impairment.Restless. Severelytraumatized by death offather. Constantobservation required.

Difficult to handle.Brought jigsaw puzzles.Not allowed to draw!Observed to becompulsive anddestructive. Diagnosis bypsychologist Forsberg,confirmed by T.L.

And the following had beenadded underneath, clearlysomewhatlater:

Professor CharlesEdelman, Chief InspectorBublanski and DetectiveSergeant Modig will visit

A. Balder at 10.00 onWednesday, November22. T.L. will be present.Drawing undersupervision.

Furtherdownstillitsaid:

Change of venue. A.Balder to be taken by T.L.and Professor Edelman tohis mother Hanna Balderon Torsgatan, Bublanskiand Modig will join. A.B. isthought likely to drawbetter in his homeenvironment.

Salander quickly checkedwhoEdelmanwas,andwhenshe saw that his specialismwas savant skills sheunderstood straight awaywhat was going on. Theyseemed to be workingtowards somesortofwitnessstatement in the form of asketch. Why else wouldBublanski and Sonja Modigbe interested in the boy’sdrawing,andwhyelsewould

Blomkvist have been socautious in framing hisquestion?None of this must be

allowed to get out. No killermust be able to find out thattheboymightbeabletodrawa picture of him. Salanderdecidedtoseeforherselfhowcareful Lindén had been inhis correspondence. Luckilyhe had not written anythingmoreabouttheboy’sdrawing

ability. He had on the otherhand received an email fromEdelman at 23.10 last night,copied to Modig andBublanski. That email wasclearly the reason why themeeting place had beenchanged.Edelmanwrote:

<Hi Torkel, How good of youto see me at your medicalcentre. I really appreciate it.But I’m afraid I have to be abit awkward. I think westand the best chance ofgetting a good result if we

arrange for the boy to drawin an environment where hefeels secure. That’s not inany way to criticize yourmedical centre. I’ve heard alot of good things about it.>The hell you have,

Salander thought, and readon:

<Therefore I’d like us tomove the boy to his mother,Hanna Balder, onTorsgatan, tomorrowmorning. The reason beingthat it is recognized inliterature on the subject that

the presence of the motherhas a positive effect onchildren with savant skills. Ifyou and the boy waitoutside the entrance onSveavägen at 9.15, then Ican pick you up as I go by.That would give us theopportunity for a bit of achat between colleagues.

Best regardsCharles Edelman>

Bublanski and Modig hadreplied at 7.01 and 7.14respectively.Therewasgoodreason,theywrote,torelyon

Edelman’s expertise andfollowhisadvice.Lindénhadjust now, at 7.57, confirmedthat he and the boy wouldwait for Charles Edelmanoutside the entrance onSveavägen.Salandersatforawhile, lost in thought. Thenshe went to the kitchen andpicked up a few old biscuitsfrom the larder, and lookedout towards Slussen andRiddarfjärden. So, she

thought, the venue for themeetinghasbeenchanged.Instead of doing his

drawingatthemedicalcentre,the boy would be drivenhome to his mother. Thepresence of themother has apositive effect, Edelmanwrote. There was somethingabout that phrase Salanderdid not like. It felt old-fashioned, didn’t it?And theintroduction itself was not

much better: “The reasonbeing that it is recognized inliteratureonthesubject…”It was stilted. Although it

wastruethatmanyacademicscould not write to save theirlives, and she knew nothingabout the way in which thisprofessor normally expressedhimself, would one of theworld’s leading neurologistsreallyfeeltheneedtoleanonwhat is recognized in the

literature? Wouldn’t he bemoreself-assured?Salander went to her

computer and skimmedthrough some of Edelman’spapers on the net; she mayhave found the odd littletouch of vanity, even in themost factual passages, butthere was nothing clumsy orpsychologicallynaiveinwhathe had written. On thecontrary, themanwas sharp.

So she went back to theemails and checked to findoutwhichSMTPserverithadbeentransmittedthrough,andthat made her jump rightaway. The server, Birdino,was not familiar, which itshouldhavebeen,soshesentitaseriesofcommandstoseeexactly what it was. In amatterofsecondsshehadtheevidence in black andwhite:the server supported open

mail relay, and the sendercould therefore transmitmessages from any addressheorshewanted.In other words, the email

from Edelman was a fake,and the copies to BublanskiandModigwerenomorethana smokescreen. She hardlyeven needed to check; shealready knew what hadhappened:thepolice’srepliesand the approval of the

altered arrangements werealso a bluff. It didn’t justmean that someone waspretending to be Edelman.There also had to be a leak,and above all, somebodywantedtheboyoutsideonthestreetonSveavägen.Somebody wanted him

defenceless in the street sothat … what? They couldkidnap or get rid of him?Salanderlookedatherwatch;

it was already 8.55. In justtwenty minutes TorkelLindén and August Balderwould be outsidewaiting forsomeone who was notProfessor Edelman, and whohad anything but goodintentionstowardsthem.What should she do? Call

the police? That was neverher first choice. She wasespecially reluctant whenthere was a risk of leaks.

Instead,shewentontoOden’swebsite and got hold ofLindén’s office number. Butsheonlymadeitasfarastheswitchboard.Lindénwasinameeting. So she found hismobile.Afterendingupinhisvoicemail, she swore outloud,andsenthimbothatextand an email telling him notto go out into the streetwiththe boy, not under anycircumstances. She signed

herself “Wasp” for lack ofanybetteridea.Then she threw on her

leatherjacketandrushedout.But she turned, ranback intotheapartmentandpackedherlaptopwiththeencryptedfileand her pistol, a Beretta 92,intoablacksportsbagbeforehurrying out again. Shewondered if she should takeher car, the B.M.W. M6Convertible gathering dust in

thegarage.Butshedecidedataxi would be quicker. Shesoonregrettedit.Whenataxifinally appeared, itwas clearthat rush-hour had notsubsided.Traffic inchedforwardand

Centralbron was almost at astandstill. Had there been anaccident? Everything wentslowly, everything but thetime,whichflew.Soonitwas9.05, then9.10.Shewas ina

tearinghurryandintheworstcase it was already too late.Most likely Lindén and theboy went out onto the streetahead of time and the killer,or whoever it was, hadalreadystruck.She dialled Lindén’s

number again. This time thecall went through, but therewasno answer, so she sworeagain and thought of MikaelBlomkvist. She had not

actually spoken to him inages.Butnowshecalledhimand he answered, soundingirritated. Only when herealized who it was did hebrightenup:“Lisbeth,isthatyou?”“Shut up and listen,” she

said.

Blomkvist was in theMillennium offices on

Götgatan, in a foul mood. Itwas not just because he hadhadanotherbadnight.ItwasT.T. Usually a serious anddecentnewsagency,T.T.hadput out a bulletin claimingthat Mikael Blomkvist wassabotaging the murderenquiry by withholdingcrucialinformation,whichheintended to publish first inMillennium.

Allegedly his aim was tosave the magazine fromfinancial disaster and rebuildhis own “ruined reputation”.Blomkvisthadknownthatthestory was in the offing. Hehad had a long conversationwith its author, HaraldWallin, the evening before.But he could not haveimagined such a devastatingresult.

It was made up of idioticinsinuations andunsubstantiated accusations,but Wallin had nonethelessmanaged to producesomething which soundedalmost objective, almostcredible. The man obviouslyhadgoodsourcesbothwithinthe Serner Group and thepolice. Admittedly theheadline was innocuous –PROSECUTOR CRITICAL

OF MIKAEL BLOMKVIST– and there was plenty ofroom in the story forBlomkvist to defend himself.Butwhicheverofhisenemieswas responsible heunderstood media logic: if anews bureau as serious asT.T. publishes a story likethis one, not only does thatmake it legitimate foreverybodyelsetojumponthebandwagon, it just about

requires them to take atougherline.ItexplainedwhyBlomkvist woke up to theonlinepaperssaying

BLOMKVISTSABOTAGES

MURDERINVESTIGATION

and

BLOMKVISTATTEMPTS TO

SAVE MAGAZINE.MURDERERRUNS FREE.

Theprintmediaweregoodenough to put quotationmarks around the headlines.But the overall impressionwas nevertheless that a newtruth was being served upwith the breakfast coffee. A

columnist by the name ofGustavLund,whoclaimedtobe fed up with all thehypocrisy,beganhispiecebywriting: “Mikael Blomkvist,who has always thought ofhimself as a cut above therest,hasnowbeenunmaskedasthebiggestcynicofusall”.“Let’shopetheydon’tstart

wavingsubpoenasatus,”saidMalm, designer and part-ownerofthemagazine,ashe

stood next to Blomkvist,nervouslychewinggum.“Let’shopetheydon’tcall

in the Marines,” Blomkvistsaid.“What?”“It was meant to be a

joke.”“Oh,O.K.But I don’t like

thetone,”Malmsaid.“Nobody likes it. But the

best we can do is grit our

teethandgetonwithbusinessasusual.”“Yourphone’sbuzzing.”“It’salwaysbuzzing.”“How about answering it,

before they come up withanythingworse?”“Yes, yes,” Blomkvist

muttered.Itwasagirl.Hethoughthe

recognized the voice but,caughtoffguard,hecouldnotatfirstplaceit.

“Who’sthat?”hesaid.“Salander,”shesaid,andat

thathegaveabigsmile.“Lisbeth,isthatyou?”“Shut up and listen,” she

said.Andsohedid.

The traffic had eased andSalanderandthetaxidriver,ayoung man called Ahmedwho toldherhehadseen theIraqwaratclosequartersand

lost his mother and twobrothers in terrorist attacks,hademergedontoSveavägenand passed the StockholmConcert Hall on their left.Salander, who was a terriblepassenger, sent off yetanother text message toLindénandtriedtocallsomeother member of staff atOden’s, anybody who couldrun out and warn him. Noreply. She swore aloud,

hoping thatBlomkvistwoulddobetter.“Is it panic stations?”

Ahmedsaidfromthedriver’sseat.When Salander replied,

“Yes,” Ahmed shot the redlight andgot a fleeting smileoutofher.After that she focused on

every metre they covered.Awaytotheleftshecaughtaglimpse of the School of

Economics and the PublicLibrary–therewasnotfartogo now. She scanned for thestreet numbers on the right-handside,andatlastsawtheaddress.Thankfullytherewasno-one lying dead on thepavement. Salander pulledout some hundred-kronornotes for Ahmed. It was anordinary, dreary Novemberday, no more than that, andpeople were on their way to

work.Butwait…Shelookedover towards the low, green-speckled wall on the othersideofthestreet.A powerfully built man in

a woollen hat and darkglasses was standing there,staring intently at theentranceonSveavägen.Therewas something about hisbody language – his righthand was not visible but thearm was tensed and ready.

Salander looked again at thedoor across the street, to theextent that she could seeanything from her obliqueangle, and she noticed itopening.It opened slowly, as if the

personabouttocomeoutwashesitant or found the doorheavy, and all of a suddenSalander shouted to Ahmedtostop.Shejumpedoutofthemoving car, just as the man

across the street raised hisrighthandandaimedapistolwith a telescopic sight at thedoorslidingslowlyopen.

CHAPTER17

22.xi

The man who called himselfJan Holtser was not happy

with the situation. The placewaswideopenanditwasthewrongtimeofday.Thestreetwas too busy, and althoughhehaddonehisbesttocoverhis face, he wasuncomfortable in daylight,and so near the park. Morethaneverhefeltthathehatedkillingchildren.But that’s the way it was

andhehad to accept that the

situation was of his ownmaking.He had underestimated the

boy and now he had tocorrect hismistake. Hemustnotletwishfulthinkingorhisown demons get in the way.He would keep his mind onthejob,betheprofessionalhealwayswasandaboveallnotthink about Olga, still lessrecall that glassy starewhich

had confronted him inBalder’sbedroom.Hehadtoconcentratenow

on the doorway across thestreet and on his Remingtonpistol which he was keepingunder his windbreaker. Butwhy wasn’t anythinghappening? His mouth feltdry. The wind was biting.There was snow lying in thestreet and on the pavementand people were hurrying

back and forth to work. Hetightened his grip on thepistol and glanced at hiswatch.Itwas9.16,and then9.17.

But still no-one emergedfrom the doorway across theroad and he cursed: wassomethingwrong?Allhehadto go on was Bogdanov’sword, but thatwas assuranceenough. The man was awizard with computers and

last night he had satengrossed in his work,sending off fake emails andgetting the language rightwith the help of his contactsinSweden.Holtserhadtakencare of the rest: studyingpictures of the place,selecting the weapon andabove all organizing thegetawaycar– a rentalwhichDennis Wilton of theSvavelsjö Motorcycle Club

had fixed for them under afalse name and which wasnow standing ready threeblocks away,withBogdanovatthewheel.Holtsersensedamovement

immediately behind him andjumped. But it was just twoyoung men walking past alittle too close to him. Thestreet seemed to be gettingbusier and he did not likethat.Inthedistanceadogwas

barking and there was asmell, maybe food frying atMcDonald’s, then… at longlast…a shortman inagreyovercoat and a curly-hairedboy in a red quilted jacketcould be seen through theglassdoorontheothersideofthe street. Holtser crossedhimself with his left hand ashe always did and started totake up the pressure on the

trigger of his weapon. Butwhatwashappening?Thedoordidnotopen.The

man hesitated and lookeddown at his mobile. Get amove on, Holtser thought.Atlast, here we go … slowly,slowly the door was pushedopen and they were on theirway out, and Holtser raisedhispistol,aimingattheboy’sface through the telescopicsight, and saw once more

those glassy eyes. Suddenlyhefeltanunexpected,violentrushof excitement.Suddenlyhe did want to kill the boy.Suddenly he wanted to snuffout that frightening look,once and for all. But thensomethinghappened.A young woman came

running out of nowhere andthrewherselfover theboyasHoltser fired and hit thetarget. At least he hit

something, andhe shotagainand again. But the boy andthewomanhadrolledbehinda car, quick as lightning.Holtsercaughthisbreathandlookedrightandleft.Thenheraced across the street,commando-style.Thistimehewasnotgoing

tofail.

Lindén had never been onsatisfactory terms with histelephones. His wife, Saga,leaped with anticipation atevery call, hoping that itwould bring a new job or anew offer; he just feltuncomfortable whenever hismobilerang.It was because of all the

complaints. He and themedical centre were alwaystakingabuse.Inhisviewthat

was all part of their business– Oden’s was an emergencycentre and so inevitablyemotions tended to run high.But he also knew on somelevelthatthecomplaintswerejustified.Hemayhavedrivenhis cost-cutting too far.Occasionally he just ranaway,went out to thewoodsandlettheothersgetonwithit.On the other hand, he didfrom time to time get

recognition, most recentlyfrom no less a person thanProfessorEdelman.The professor had irritated

himatfirst.Hedidnotlikeitwhen outsiders meddled inthe way the clinic managedtheir procedures. But he feltmore conciliatory since hehadbeenpraisedinthatemailthis morning. Who knows?He might even get theprofessor to support the idea

of the boy staying on atOden’s for a while. Thatmight add some spark to hislife, although he could notquite understand why. As arulehetendedtokeephimselfapartfromthechildren.There was something

enigmatic about this AugustBalder which intrigued him.From the very first he hadbeenaggravatedbythepoliceand their demands. He

wantedAugusttohimselfandhoped perhaps to beassociated with some of themystiquesurroundingtheboy– or at least be able tounderstand what thoseendless rows of numbersmeant, the ones he hadwritten on that comic in theplayroom.Butitwasfarfromeasy.Theboyseemedtoshunany formofcontactandnowhe was refusing to come out

to the street. He was beinghopelessly contrary, andLindén was forced to draghimbyhiselbow.“Come on, come on,” he

muttered.Then his mobile buzzed.

Somebodywasdeterminedtogetholdofhim.He did not answer.

Probably it was some trivialnonsense, yet anothercomplaint.But as he reached

thedoor,hedecidedtocheckhis messages. There wereseveral texts fromawithheldnumber,andtheyweresayingsomething strange,presumably some kind of ajoke: they told him not gooutside. He was under nocircumstances to go into thestreet.Incomprehensible, and at

that moment August seemedtowant to run for it. Lindén

took a firm grip on his arm,opened the door hesitantlyand pulled the boy out.Everything was normal.Peoplewalkedbyastheydidevery day and he wonderedagainaboutthetextmessagesbut, before he had time tocompletethethought,afigurecamerushinginfromtheleftand threw itselfoverAugust.Inthatinstantheheardashot.

Obviously he was indanger, andhe looked acrossthe street in terror, and theresaw a tall, powerful manrunning towards him acrossSveavägen.Whatthehelldidhehaveinhishand?Wasthatapistol?Without a thought for

August, Lindén turned to gobackthroughthedoorandforasecondortwohethoughthe

was going to make it tosafety.Butheneverdid.

Salander’s reaction had beeninstinctive as she launchedherselfontopoftheboy.Shehadhurtherselfwhenshehitthepavement,oratleasttherewaspain inher shoulder andchest.Butshehadnotimetotake stock. She took hold ofthechildandhidbehindacar

and they lay there breathingheavily while shots werefired. After that it becamedisturbingly quiet, and whenSalanderpeeredunderthecarshe could see the sturdy legsoftheirattackerracingacrossthestreet.Itcrossedhermindto grab the Beretta from hersportsbagandreturnfire,butshe realized she would nothavetime.Ontheotherhand… a large Volvo came

crawlingpast, so she jumpedto her feet and in oneconfused rush lifted the boyand ran towards the car. Shewrenchedopenthebackdoorandthrewherselfinwithhim.“Drive!”sheyelled,asshe

sawbloodspreadingontotheseat.

JacobCharrowastwenty-twoand the proud owner of a

Volvo XC60 which he hadbought on credit with hisfather as guarantor. He wasonhiswaytoUppsalatohavelunchwithhisuncleandauntand cousins, and he waslookingforwardtoit.Hewasdying to tell them that he’dgot a place on Syrian F.C.’sfirstteam.The radio was playing

Avicii’s “WakeMeUp” andhewasdrumminghis fingers

on the steering wheel as hedrove past the Concert HallandtheSchoolofEconomics.Something was going onfurther down the street.People were running in alldirections. A man wasshoutingandthecarsinfrontof him were drivingerratically, so he sloweddown. If there had been anaccident, hemightbe able to

help. Charro was alwaysdreamingofbeingahero.But this time he got a

fright.Theman to the leftofhim ran through the trafficacrosstheroad,lookinglikeasoldieronanoffensive.Therewas something brutal in hismovements and Charro wasabout to floor the acceleratorwhen he heard his rear doorbeingyankedopen.Someonehadthrownthemselvesinand

he started shouting. He hadno idea what. Maybe it wasnot even inSwedish.But theperson – itwas a girlwith achild–yelledback:“Drive!”He hesitated for a second.

Who were these people?Maybe they meant to robhim,orstealthecar.Hecouldnot think straight, the wholesituation was crazy. Then hehadnochoicebut toact.His

rear window was shatteredbecause someone wasshooting at them, so heacceleratedwildlyandwithapoundingheartdrovethrougha red at the intersectionwithOdengatan.“What’sallthisabout?”he

shouted.“What’sgoingon?”“Shut it!” the girl snapped

back. In the rear-viewmirrorhe could see her examiningthe small boywho had large

terrified eyes, checking himover with practisedmovements, like a hospitalnurse.Thenhenoticedforthefirst time that there was notjust brokenglass all over theback seat. There was bloodtoo.“Hashebeenshot?”“I don’t know. Just keep

driving. Go left there …Now!”

“O.K., O.K.,” he said,terrified now, and he took ahard left up alongVanadisvägen and drove athighspeedtowardsVasastan,wonderingiftheywerebeingfollowedandifanyonewouldshootatthemagain.He lowered his head

towards the steering wheeland felt the draught throughthe broken rear window.What the hell had he been

dragged into, and who wasthis girl? He looked at heragain in the mirror. Blackhair and piercings and aglowering look, and for amoment he felt that as far asshewasconcernedhesimplydid not exist. But then shemuttered something whichsoundedalmostcheerful.“Goodnews?”heasked.Shedidnotanswer.Instead

she pulled off her leather

jacket,tookholdofherwhiteT-shirtandthen…Jesus!Sheripped it apartwith a suddenjerk and was sitting therenaked from thewaist up, notwearing a bra or anything,and he glanced inbewilderment at her breastswhich stood straight out, andaboveallatthebloodthatranoverthemlikearivulet,downtowards her stomach and thewaistbandofherjeans.

The girl had been hitsomewhere below theshoulder, not far above herheart, and was bleedingheavily.Using theT-shirt fora bandage, she wound ittightly tostaunch theflowofblood and put her leatherjacket back on . She lookedridiculously pleased withherself,especiallysincesomeof the blood had splashed

ontoher cheek and forehead,likewarpaint.“So the good news is that

you got shot and not theboy?”hesaid.“Something like that,” she

said.“Should I take you to the

Karolinskahospital?”“No.”

Salander had found both theentry and exit holes. Thebulletmusthavegonestraightthrough the front of hershoulder,whichwasbleedingprofusely–shecouldfeelherheartpoundingallthewayupto her temples. But she didnotthinkanyarteryhadbeensevered, or at least so shehoped.She lookedback.Theattacker must have had agetawaycarsomewhereclose

by,butnobody seemed tobefollowing them. With anyluck they had managed toescapefastenough.She quickly looked down

at the boy – August – whowas sitting with his handscrossed over his chest,rocking backwards andforwards. It struck Salanderthat she ought to dosomething,soshebrushedtheglass fragments from the

boy’s hair and legs, and thatmade him sit still for amoment. Salander was notsure that was a good sign.Thelookinhiseyeswasrigidandblank.Shenoddedathimandtriedtolookasifshehadthe situation under control.She was feeling sick anddizzyand theT-shirtshehadwound around her shoulderwasbynowsoakedinblood.Shewasafraidthatshemight

be losing consciousness andtried to come up with somesort of plan. One thing wascrystal clear: the policewerenot an option. They had ledtheboy right into thepathoftheassailantandwereplainlynotontopofthesituation.Sowhatshouldshedo?She could not stay in this

car. It had been seen at theshooting and the shatteredrear window was bound to

attract attention. She shouldgetthemantodriveherhometo Fiskargatan. Then shecould take her B.M.W.,registered to Irene Nesser, ifonly she had the strength todriveit.“Head towards

Västerbron!”sheordered.“O.K.,O.K.,”saidtheman

driving.“Do you have anything to

drink?”

“Abottleofwhisky–Iwasgoingtogiveittomyuncle.”“Pass it back here,” she

said,andwashandedabottleofGrant’s,whichsheopenedwithdifficulty.She tore off hermakeshift

bandage and poured whiskyonto the bullet wound. Shetook one, two, three bigmouthfuls, and was justoffering some to Augustwhen it dawned on her that

that perhaps was not such agood idea. Children don’tdrink whisky. Not evenchildren in shock. Herthoughts were gettingconfused.Was thatwhatwashappening?“You’ll have to give me

your shirt,” she said to themanupfront.“What?”“I need something else to

bandagemyshoulderwith.”

“O.K.,but—”“Nobuts.”“If you want me to help

you,youcouldatleasttellmewhy youwere being shot at.Areyoucriminals?”“I’m trying to protect the

boy, it’s that simple. Thosebastardswereafterhim.”“Why?”“Noneofyourbusiness.”“Sohe’snotyourson.”“Idon’tevenknowhim.”

“So why are you helpinghim?”Salanderhesitated.“We have the same

enemies,” she said. At thattheyoungmanpulledoffhisV-necked pullover – with acertain amount of reluctanceanddifficulty–ashe steeredthe car with his other hand.Thenheunbuttonedhisshirt,tookitoffandhandeditbackto Salander, who wound it

gingerlyaroundhershoulder.August, whowasworryinglyimmobile now, looked downat his skinny legs with afrozen expression, and onceagain Salander asked herselfwhatsheoughttobedoing.Theycouldhideoutather

place on Fiskargatan.Blomkvist was the onlypersonwhoknewtheaddress,and the apartment could notbe traced through her name

on any public register.But itwas still a risk. There hadbeen a time when she wasknown up and down thecountryasacompletelunatic,and thisenemywascertainlyskilled at digging upinformation.Someone on Sveavägen

might have recognized her;the police might already beturning everything upsidedowntofindher.Sheneeded

anewhidingplace,notlinkedtoanyofheridentities,andsoshe needed help. But fromwhom?Holger?Her former guardian,

HolgerPalmgren,hadalmostrecoveredfromhisstrokeandwas living in a two-roomapartment onLiljeholmstorget. Holger wasthe only person who reallyknew her. Hewas loyal to afaultandwoulddoeverything

in his power to help. But hewas elderly and anxious andshedidnotwant todraghimintothisifshecouldhelpit.There was Blomkvist of

course, and in fact therewasnothing wrong with him.Still, she was reluctant tocontact him again – perhapsprecisely because there wasnothing wrong with him. Hewas such a damn goodperson. But what the hell…

you could hardly hold thatagainsthim,oratleastnottoomuch. She called hismobile.He picked up after just onering,soundingalarmed.“It’s such a relief to hear

yourvoice!Whatthehellhashappened?”“Ican’ttellyounow.”“It looks likeoneofyou’s

been shot. There’s bloodhere.”“Theboy’sO.K.”

“Andyou?”“I’mO.K.”“You’vebeenshot.”“You’ll have to wait,

Blomkvist.”Shelookedoutatthetown

and saw that theywere closeto Västerbron already. Sheturnedtothedriver:“Pull up there, by the bus

stop.”“Areyougettingout?”

“You’regettingout.You’regoingtogivemeyourmobileandwaitoutsidewhileI talk.Isthatclear?”Heglancedather,terrified,

then passed back hismobile,stopped the car and got out.Salander continued herconversation.“What’s going on?”

Blomkvistsaid.“Don’t you worry about

that,”shesaid.“Fromnowon

I want you to carry anAndroid phone with you, aSamsung or something. Youmusthaveoneattheoffice?”“Yes, I think there are a

couple.”“Good. So go straight into

Google Play and install theRedphone app and also theThreema app for textmessaging.Weneedasecurelineofcommunication.”“Right.”

“If you’re as much of anidiot as I think you are,whoever helps you do it hastoremainanonymous.Idon’twantanyweaklinks.”“Ofcourse.”“Andthen…”“Yes?”“Only use it in an

emergency. All othercommunication should bethroughaspeciallinkonyourcomputer.You or the person

whoisn’tanidiotneedstogointo www.pgpi.org anddownload an encryptionprogram for your emails. Iwantyoutodothatrightnow,thenIwantyoutofindasafehiding place for the boy andme – somewhere notconnected to you orMillennium–andletmehavethe address in an encryptedemail.”

“It’s not your job to keeptheboysafe,Lisbeth.”“Idon’ttrustthepolice.”“Then we’ll have to find

someone else you do trust.The boy is autistic, he hasspecial needs. I don’t thinkyoushouldberesponsibleforhim, especially not if you’rewounded…”“Are you going to keep

talkingcrapordoyouwanttohelpme?”

“Helpyouofcourse.”“Good. Check LISBETH

STUFF in five minutes. I’llgive you more informationthere.Thendeleteit.”“Lisbeth, listen tome,you

needtogettoahospital.Youneedtobefixedup.Icantellbyyourvoice…”She hung up, waved the

youngman back in from thebus stop, got out her laptopand through her mobile

hacked into Blomkvist’scomputer. She wrote outinstructions on how todownload and install theencryptionprogram.She then told the man to

drive her toMosebacke torg.Itwas a risk, but she hadnochoice. The city wasbeginning to look more andmoreblurred.

Blomkvist swore under hisbreath. He was standing onSveavägen, not far from thebody of Torkel Lindén andthe cordon which the policewho had been first on thescene were putting in place.EversinceSalander’soriginalcallhehadbeenengagedinafrenzy of activity. He hadthrown himself into a taxi toget here and had doneeverything he could during

the trip to stop the boy andthedirectorfromwalkingoutontothestreet.The only othermember of

staff he had managed to gethold of at Oden’s MedicalCentrewasBirgittaLindgren,who had rushed into thehallway only to see hercolleaguefallagainstthedoorwith a fatal bullet wound tohis head. When Blomkvistarrived ten minutes later she

was beside herself, but sheand another woman by thenameofUlrikaFranzén,whohad been on her way to theofficesofAlbertBonniersthepublishers further up thestreet, had still been able togive Blomkvist a prettycoherentaccountofwhathadhappened.WhichwaswhyBlomkvist

knew,evenbeforehismobilerangagain, thatSalanderhad

saved August Balder’s life.Sheandtheboywerenowinsome car with a driver whohad no reason to beenthusiastic about helpingthem having been shot at.Blomkvisthadseenthebloodon the pavement and in thestreet and, even though thecallreassuredhimsomewhat,he was still extremelyconcerned. Salander hadsoundedinabadwayandyet

–nosurprise there– shehadbeenaspig-headedasever.She had a gunshotwound,

but she was determined tohidetheboyherself.Thatwasunderstandable, given herhistory,butshouldheandthemagazine get involved?However heroic her actionson Sveavägen, what she haddonemightfromalegalpointof view be seen askidnapping. He could not

help her with that. He wasalready in trouble with themedia as well as the publicprosecutor.ButthiswasSalanderafter

all, and he had given hisword. He would damn wellhelpher,evenifBergerthrewa fit. He took a deep breathand pulled out his mobile.But a familiar voice wascallingoutbehindhim.ItwasJan Bublanski. Bublanski

came running along thepavement looking as if hewere close to physicalcollapse, and with him wereDetective Sergeant Modiganda tall,athleticmaninhisfifties, presumably theprofessor Salander hadmentioned.“Where’s the boy?”

Bublanskipanted.“Hewaswhiskedawayina

big red Volvo, somebody

rescuedhim.”“Who?”“I’lltellyouwhatIknow,”

Blomkvistsaid,notsurewhathewouldorshouldsay.“ButfirstIhavetomakeacall.”“Oh no, first you’re going

totalktous.Wehavetosendoutanationwidealert.”“Talk to that lady over

there. Her name is UlrikaFranzén. She knows morethanIdo.Shesawithappen,

she’s even got some sort ofdescription of the assailant. Iarrivedafterithappened.”“And the man who saved

theboy?”“The woman who saved

him. Fru Franzén has adescriptionofheraswell.Butjust give me a minute here…”“How did you know

something was going tohappen in the first place,”

Modig spat, with unexpectedanger. “They said on theradio that you had called theemergency services beforeanyshotswerefired.”“Ihadatip-off.”“Fromwhom?”Blomkvist took another

deep breath and lookedModig straight in the eye,unmoveableasever.“Whatever may have been

written in today’s papers, I

hope you realize that I wantto cooperate with you ineverywayIcan.”“I’ve always trusted you,

Mikael.ButI’mbeginningtohavemydoubts,”Modigsaid.“O.K., I understand that.

But you have to understandthat I don’t trust you either.There’sbeenaseriousleak–you’ve grasped that much,haven’t you? Otherwise thiswouldn’thavehappened,”he

said, pointing at the pronebodyinsidethecordon.“That’s true, and it’s

absolutely terrible,”Bublanskisaid.“I’mgoingtomakemycall

now,”Blomkvistsaid,andhewalked up the street so hecouldtalkundisturbed.But he never made any

call.Herealisedthatthetimehadcometogetseriousaboutsecurity, so he walked back

and informed Bublanski andModigthathehadtogotohisoffice immediately, but hewas at their disposalwhenever they needed him.At that moment, to her ownsurprise,Modig took hold ofhisarm.“First you have to tell us

howyouknewthatsomethingwas going to happen,” shesaidfirmly.

“I’m afraid I have toinvokemyrighttoprotectmysources,” Blomkvistansweredwithapainedsmile.Thenhewaveddownataxi

and took off for the office,deep in thought. Millenniumusually used Tech Source, aconsultancyfirmwitha teamof young women who gavethe magazine quick andefficient help whenever theyhadmorecomplexI.T.issues.

But he did notwant to bringtheminnow.NordidhefeelliketurningtoChristerMalm,even though he knew moreaboutI.T.thananyoneontheeditorial team. Instead hethought of Zander, who wasalready involved in the storyand was also great withcomputers. Blomkvistdecided to ask for his help,andpromisedhimself thathewould fight to get the boy a

permanent job – just as soonas he and Berger hadmanaged to sort out thismess.

Berger’smorninghadbeenanightmare even before shotswerefiredonSveavägen,andthatwasdue to thesickeningT.T.bulletin.Tosomeextentit was a continuation of theold campaign against

Blomkvist – all the jealous,twisted souls came crawlingout of the woodwork again,spewing theirbileonTwitterand online forums and inemails. This time the racistmob had joined in, becauseMillennium had been in theforefrontofthebattlesagainstxenophobia and racism formanyyears.The worst part was surely

that thishatecampaignmade

it somuchmore difficult foreveryonetodotheirjobs.Allof a suddenpeoplewere lessinclined to share informationwiththemagazine.Ontopofthat there was a rumour thatChief Prosecutor Ekströmwasplanningtoissueasearchwarrant for the magazine’soffices.Berger did not reallybelieve it. That kind ofwarrantwasaseriousmatter,

given the right to sourceprotection.But she did agree with

Malm that the present toxicatmosphere would give evenlawyersludicrousideasabouthowtheyshouldact.Shewasstanding there thinking abouthow to retaliate whenBlomkvist stepped into theoffices. To her surprise, hedid not want to talk to her.Instead he went straight to

Zander and ushered him intoherroom.Afterawhileshefollowed.

She found the young manlooking tense. She heardBlomkvist mention “P.G.P.”She had been on an I.T.security course so she knewwhatthatmeant,andshesawZander making notes before,without somuch as a glancein her direction, he made a

beeline for Blomkvist’slaptopintheopen-planoffice.“Whatwasallthatabout?”

shesaid.Blomkvist told her in a

whisper. She could barelytakeitin,andhehadtorepeathimself.“Soyouwantme to finda

hidingplaceforthem?”“Sorry to drag you into

this, Erika,” he said. “But Idon’t know anyone who has

asmanyfriendswithsummerhousesasyoudo.”“I don’t know, Mikael. I

reallydon’tknow.”“We can’t let them down.

Salander has been shot. Thesituationisdesperate.”“If she’s been shot, she

shouldgotoahospital.”“She won’t. She wants to

protecttheboyatallcosts.”“To give him the calm he

needstodrawthemurderer.”

“Yes.”“It’s too great a

responsibility, Mikael, toogreat a risk. If somethinghappens, the fallout woulddestroy the magazine.Witness protection is not ourjob.Thisissomethingforthepolice – just think of all thequestions thatwillbe thrownup by those drawings, bothfortheinvestigationandona

psychological level. Therehastobeanothersolution.”“Maybe – if we were

dealing with someone otherthanLisbethSalander.”“You know what? I get

reallypissedoffwiththewayyoualwaysdefendher.”“I’m only trying to be

realistic.Theauthoritieshavelet the Balder boy down andputhislifeindanger–IknowthatinfuriatesSalander.”

“So we just have to goalongwithit,isthatit?”“We don’t have a choice.

She’s out there somewhere,hopping mad, and hasnowheretogo.”“Take them to Sandhamn

then.”“There’s too much of a

connection between Lisbethand me. If it comes out thatit’s her, they would searchmyaddressesstraightaway.”

“O.K.then.”“O.K.then,what?”“O.K.,I’llfindsomething.”She could hardly believe

she was saying it. That washow itwaswithBlomkvist–she was incapable of sayingno–buttherewasnolimittowhat he would do for hereither.“Great,Ricky.Where?”She tried to think, but her

mindwas ablank.She could

not come up with a singlename.“I’m racking my brains,”

shesaid.“Well, do it quickly, then

give the address anddirections to Andrei. Heknowswhattodo.”Berger needed some air

and so she went down intoGötgatan and walked in thedirection ofMedborgarplatsen, running

through one name afteranother in hermind. But notone of them felt right. Therewas too much at stake, andeveryone she thought of wasinsomewaynot rightorhadsomedrawbackorevenifnotshe was reluctant to exposethem to the risk or put themto the trouble by asking,perhaps because she herselfwassoupsetbythesituation.On the other hand … here

was a small boy and peoplewere trying to kill him andshehadpromised.Shehadtocomeupwithsomething.Apolicesirenwailedinthe

distance and she looked overtowards the park and theTunnelbanastationandatthemosque on the hill.A youngman went by, surreptitiouslyshuffling some papers, andthen suddenly – GabriellaGrane. At first the name

surprised her.Granewas notaclosefriendandsheworkedat a place where it wasunwise to flout any laws.Grane would risk losing herjobifshesomuchasthoughtabout this, andyet…Bergercould not get it out of herhead.It was not just that Grane

was an exceptionally goodand responsible person. Amemory also kept intruding.

It was from last summer, inthe early hours of themorning or maybe even atdaybreak after a crayfishparty out at Grane’s summerhouseonIngaröisland,whenthe two had been sitting in agarden swing on the terracelooking down at the waterthroughagapinthetrees.“ThisiswhereI’druntoif

the hyenas were after me,”Berger had said, without

really knowing what shemeant. She had been feelingtired and vulnerable atwork,and there was somethingabout that house which shethought would make it anidealplaceofrefuge.It stood on a rock

promontory with steep,smooth sides, and thesurrounding trees andelevation shielded it fromonlookers. She remembered

Grane saying, “If the hyenascome after you, you’rewelcometobehere,Erika.”Maybe it was asking too

much,butshedecidedtogiveita try.Shewentbackto theoffice to call from theencrypted Redphone appwhich Zander had by theninstalledforhertoo.

CHAPTER18

22.xi

Gabriella Grane was on herway to a meeting at Säpo

when her personal mobilebuzzed. The meeting hadbeen called at very shortnotice to discuss the incidentat Sveavägen. She answeredtersely:“Yes?”“It’sErika.”“Hi there. Can’t talk now.

We’llspeaklater.”“Ihavea…”Bergersaid.But Grane had already

hung up – this was no time

forpersonalcalls.Shewalkedinto the meeting roomwearing an expression thatsuggestedshemeanttostartaminor war. Crucialinformation had been leakedandnowasecondpersonwasdeadandonemoreapparentlyseriously wounded. She hadnever felt more like tellingthewholelotofthemtogotohell.They had been so eagerto get hold of new

informationthattheyhadlosttheirheads.Forhalfaminuteshedidnothearonewordhercolleagues were saying. Shejust sat there, seething. Butthensheprickedupherears.Someone was saying that

Blomkvist,thejournalist,hadcalledtheemergencyservicesbefore shots were fired onSveavägen.Thatwasstrange,and now Erika Berger hadcalled, and she was not the

typetomakecasualcalls,andcertainly not during workinghours. She might have hadsomething important or evencritical to say. Grane got upandmadeanexcuse.“Gabriella, you need to

listentothis,”Kraftsaidinanunusuallysharptone.“Ihavetomakeacall,”she

replied,andsuddenlyshewasnot in the least interested in

whattheheadoftheSecurityPolicethoughtofher.“Whatsortofcall?”“Acall,” she said,and left

themtogointoheroffice.

BergeratonceaskedGranetocall her instead on theSamsung.Theminuteshehadher friend on the line again,she could tell that somethingwas going on. There was

none of the usual friendlyenthusiasm in her voice. Onthe contrary, Grane soundedworried and tense, as if sheknew from the start that theconversationwasimportant.“Hi,”shesaidsimply.“I’m

stillreallypushed.ButisthisaboutAugustBalder?”Berger felt acutely

uncomfortable.“Howdidyouknow?”

“I’m on the investigationand I’ve just heard thatMikaelBlomkvistwas tippedoff about what was going tohappenonSveavägen.”“You’ve already heard

that?”“Yes, and now of course

we’reeagertoknowhowthatcameabout.”“Sorry. I can’t tell you

that.”

“O.K. Understood. Butwhydidyoucall?”Berger closed her eyes.

How could she have beensuchanidiot?“I’m so sorry. I’ll have to

asksomebodyelse,”shesaid.“You have a conflict ofinterest.”“I’m happy to take on

almost any conflict ofinterest, Erika. But I can’tstand the thought of your

withholdinginformation.Thisinvestigation means more tomethanyoucanimagine.”“Really?”“Yes, it does. I knew that

Balder was under seriousthreat, but still I couldn’tprevent the murder, and I’mgoingtohavetolivewiththatfor the rest of my life. So,please, don’t hide anythingfromme.”

“I’m going to have to,Gabriella. I’m sorry. I don’twant you to get into troublebecauseofus.”“I saw Mikael in

Saltsjöbaden the night beforelast,thenightofthemurder.”“Hedidn’tmentionthat.”“It wouldn’t have made

sense for me to identifymyself.”“Isee.”

“Wecouldhelpeachotheroutinthismess.”“That sounds like a good

idea.IcanaskMikael tocallyou later. But now I have togetonwiththis.”“Iknowjustaswellasyou

do that there’s a leak in thepolice team.At this stagewecould benefit from unlikelyalliances.”“Absolutely.I’msorry,but

Ihavetopresson.”

“O.K.,” Grane said,obviously disappointed. “I’llpretend this call neverhappened.Goodlucknow.”“Thanks,”Bergersaid,and

went back to searchingthroughhercontacts.

Grane went back to themeeting room, her mindwhirling. What was it thatErika had wanted? She did

not fully understand and yetshehadavague idea.Asshecame back into the room theconversation died andeveryonelookedather.“What was that about?”

Kraftsaid.“Somethingprivate.”“Thatyouhadtodealwith

now?”“That I had to deal with.

Howfarhadyougot?”

“We were talking aboutwhat happened onSveavägen,” said RagnarOlofsson, the head ofdivision,“butasIwassaying,we don’t yet have enoughinformation. The situation ischaotic, and it looks as ifwe’re losing our source inBublanski’s group. Thedetective inspector seems tohavebecomeparanoid.”

“You can’t blame him,”Granesaid.“Well … perhaps not.

We’ve talked about that too.We’llleavenostoneunturneduntil we know how theattacker worked out that theboywasatthemedicalcentreand that he was going to gooutbythefrontdoorwhenhedid.Noeffortwillbespared,Ineedhardlysay.ButImustemphasizethata leakdidnot

necessarilycomefromwithinthe police. The informationwasquitewidelyknown– atthemedical centre of course,by the mother and herunreliable partner LasseWestman, and in the officesofMillennium.Andwe can’trule out hacker attacks. I’llcomeback to that. If Imightcontinuewithmyreport?”“Please.”

“We’ve been discussinghowMikaelBlomkvistcomesinto this, and this is wherewe’reworried.Howcouldheknowaboutashootingbeforeit happens? In my opinion,he’sgotsomesourceclosetothecriminalsthemselves,andIseenoreasonforustotiptoearound his efforts to protectthose sources. We have tofind out where he got hisinformationfrom.”

“The more so since heseems desperate and will doanything for a scoop,”Superintendent MårtenNielsensaid.“It would appear that

Mårten has some excellentsources too. He reads theevening papers,” Grane saidacidly.“Not the evening papers,

sweetie. T.T. – a source

whichevenweatSäporegardasfairlyreliable.”“That was absurd and

defamatory, and you know itaswellasIdo,”Granesaid.“Ihadnoideayouwereso

besottedwithBlomkvist.”“Idiot!”“Stop this at once!” Kraft

said. “This is ridiculousbehaviour!Carryon,Ragnar.Whatdoweknowaboutwhathappened?”

“The first people on thesceneweretworegularpoliceofficers, Erik Sandström andTord Landgren,” Olofssonsaid. “My informationcomesfrom them. They were thereon the dot of 9.24, and bythen it was all over. TorkelLindénwas dead, shot in thebackofthehead,andtheboy,well, we don’t know.According to witnesses, hewashittoo.Wehavebloodin

the street. But nothing isconfirmed. The boy wasdrivenawayinaredVolvo–we do at least have parts ofthe registration number plusthe model of the vehicle.We’ll get the name of itsownerveryshortly.”Grane noticed that Kraft

waswritingeverythingdown,just as she had done at theirearliermeetings.

“But what actuallyhappened?”shesaid.“Accordingtotwostudents

from the School ofEconomics who werestandingon theopposite sideofSveavägen,itlookedlikeasettling of scores betweentwocriminalgangswhowerebothaftertheboy.”“Soundsfar-fetched.”“I’mnotsosure,”Olofsson

said.

“What makes you saythat?”Kraftsaid.“There were professionals

on both sides. The assailantseems to have been standingandwatchingthedoorfromalow green wall on the othersideofSveavägen,infrontofthe park. There’s a lot tosuggest that this is the manwho shot Frans Balder. Notthatanyonehasseenhis faceclearly; it’s possible he was

wearing some sort of mask.Buthe seems tohavemovedwith the same exceptionalefficiency and speed.And inthe opposite camp there wasthiswoman.”“What do we know about

her?”“Not much. She was

wearing a black leatherjacket, we think, and darkjeans. She was young withblack hair and piercings – a

punk, according to onewitness – also short, butfierce. She appeared out ofnowhere, throwing herselfover the boy and shieldinghim. The witnesses all agreethat she was not someordinary member of thepublic. She seemed to havetraining,orhadatleastfoundherself in similar situationsbefore.Thenthere’sthecar–we have conflicting reports.

One witness says it justhappened to be driving by,and the woman and the boythrew themselves in more orless while it was moving.Others – especially thoseguys from the School ofEconomics – think the carwas part of the operation.Either way, we have akidnappingonourhands.”“It doesn’t make sense.

This woman saved the boy

only to abscond with him?”Granesaid.“That’s what it looks like.

Otherwise we would haveheard from her by now,wouldn’twe?”“How did she get to

Sveavägen?”“Wedon’tknowyet.Buta

witness, a former editor-in-chief of a trade-union paper,says the woman looked

somehow familiar,”Olofssonsaid.He went on to say

something else, but by thenGrane had stopped listening.She was thinking,Zalachenko’s daughter – ithas to be Zalachenko’sdaughter, knowing full wellhow unfair itwas to call herthat. The daughter hadnothingtodowiththefather.

On the contrary, she hadhatedhim.But Grane had known her

bythatnameeversince,yearsearlier, she had readeverything she could lay herhands on about theZalachenko affair. WhileOlofsson went onspeculating,shebegantofeelthe pieces were falling intoplace.Alreadythedaybeforeshe had identified some

commonalities betweenZalachenko’s old networkand the group which calleditself the Spiders, but haddismissed them. She hadbelieved there was a limit tohow far thuggish criminalscould develop their skills; itseemed entirely unreasonabletosupposethattheycouldgofrom seedy-looking bikertypes in their leatherwaistcoats to cutting-edge

hackers.Yet the thought hadoccurred to her. Grane hadevenwonderedifthegirlwhohelped Linus Brandell tracethe break-in on Balder’scomputers might have beenZalachenko’sdaughter.Therewas a Säpo file on thewoman,with anote that said“Hacker? Computer savvy?”,and even though it seemedprompted by the surprisinglyfavourable reference she had

received for her work atMilton Security, it was clearfrom the document that shehad devoted a great deal oftime to research into herfather’s criminalorganization.Most striking of all was

that there was a knownconnection between thewoman and MikaelBlomkvist. It was unclearwhat exactly that connection

was; Grane did not for onemomentbelievethemaliciousrumours that it was ablackmail situation orsomething to do with sado-masochistic sex, but theconnection was there. BothBlomkvist and the woman –who matched the descriptionof Zalachenko’s daughter –appeared to have knownsomethingabouttheshootingon Sveavägen beforehand,

and afterwards Erika Bergerhad rung to discusssomething important. Wasn’tit all pointing in the samedirection?“I was wondering …”

Grane said, perhaps tooloudly, interruptingOlofsson.“Yes?”hesaidtestily.She was about to present

her theory when she noticedsomething which made herhesitate.

It was nothing soremarkable, not at all. ItwasjustthatKraftwasonceagainmeticulously writing downwhat Olofsson had said. Itwasprobablygood tohave asenior boss who was socommitted, but there wassomething rather too zealousaboutthatscratchingpen,andit made Grane wonder if aseniorboss,whosejobitwasto see the bigger picture,

should be so preoccupiedwith every tiny detail.Without reallyknowingwhy,shebegantofeelveryuneasy.It may have been because

sheherselfwasbusypointingafingeratsomeoneonflimsygrounds, but also Kraftseemed to blush at thatmoment perhaps because sherealized that she was beingobserved,andlookedawayinembarrassment. Grane

decided not to finish thesentenceshehadbegun.“Orrather…”“Yes,Gabriella?”“Oh, nothing,” she said,

feeling a sudden need to getaway, and even though sheknew that it would not lookgood, she left the meetingroomoncemore andwent tothetoilet.Later shewould remember

how she stared at herself in

the mirror and tried tounderstand what she hadseen. Had Kraft reallyblushed, and if so, what didthat mean? Maybe nothing,she decided, absolutelynothing, and, even if it wasindeed shame or guilt thatGranehadreadinherface,itcouldhavebeenaboutalmostanything. It occurred to herthat she did not know herboss all that well. But she

knew enough to be sure thatshewouldnotsendachildtohisdeath for financialoranyothergain,no,thatwasoutofthequestion.Grane had simply become

paranoid, a typicallysuspicious spy who sawmoles everywhere, even inher own reflection. “Idiot,”she muttered, and smiled atherself despondently, as if todismiss the idea and come

back down to earth. But thatdidn’t solve anything. In thatinstantshethoughtshesawanewkindof truth inherowneyes.Shesuspectedthatshewas

quitelikeHelenaKraftinthatshe was capable andambitiousandwantedtogetapat on the back from hersuperiors. That was notnecessarily always a goodthing, though. With that

tendency,ifyouoperateinanunhealthy culture you riskbecoming just as unhealthyyourself and –who knows –perhapsitisthewilltopleasethatleadspeopletocrimejustasoftenasevilorgreed.Peoplewanttofitinanddo

well, and so they doindescribablystupidthings.Isthatwhathadhappenedhere?If nothing else then HansFaste–becausesurelyhewas

Säpo’s source in Bublanski’sgroup – had been leaking tothem because that was whathe was expected to do andbecause he wanted to scorepoints with Säpo. Olofssonhad seen to it thatKraftwaskept informed of every littledetail; she was his boss andhewanted to be in her goodbooks and then … well,maybe Kraft in turn hadpassed on some information

because she wanted to beseen to be doing a good job.But, if so, by whom? Thehead of the national police,the government, foreignintelligence,inthatcasemostlikely American or English,whoperhapsthen…Grane did not take this

train of thought any further.Sheaskedherselfagainifshewas letting her imaginationrunawaywithherbut,evenif

she was, she still could nottrustherteam.Shewantedtobe good at her job, but notnecessarilybydoingherdutyto Säpo. She justwanted theBalderboytobesafe.Insteadof Kraft’s face she now sawBerger’s, so she went to heroffice and got out herBlackphone,thesameoneshehad been using to call FransBalder.

Berger had left the office tohave an undisturbedconversation and was nowstanding in front ofSöderbokhandeln, thebookstore on Götgatan,wondering if she had donesomething stupid. Grane hadargued her case so well thatBerger could not defendherself. That is no doubt thedisadvantage of having

intelligent friends: they seestraightthroughyou.Not only had Grane

worked out what Bergerwanted to talk to her about,she had also persuaded herthat she felt a moralresponsibility and wouldneverrevealthehidingplace,however much that mightappear to conflict with herprofessional duty. She saidshe had a debt to repay and

insisted on helping. She wasgoingtocourieroverthekeysto her summer house onIngarö and arrange fordirections tobe sentover theencrypted link which AndreiZanderhadsetup.Further up Götgatan a

beggar collapsed, scatteringtwocarrierbagsfullofplasticbottles across the pavement.Berger hurried over but theman, who was soon on his

feet again, declined her helpso she gave him a sad smileand went back up to theMillenniumoffices.Blomkvist was looking

upsetandexhausted.Hishairwas standing on end and hisshirt hung outside histrousers. She had not seenhimlookingsowornoutinalongtime.Yetwhenhiseyesshone like that, therewas nostoppinghim.Itmeanthehad

entered into that absoluteconcentration from which hewould not emerge until hehad got to the heart of thestory.“Have you found a hiding

place?”hesaid.Shenodded.“Itmightbebestifyousay

nothing more. We have tokeep this to as small a circleofpeopleaspossible.”

“That sounds sensible.Butlet’s hope it’s a short-termsolution. Idon’t like the ideaof Lisbeth Salander beingresponsiblefortheboy.”“Who knows? Maybe

they’ll be good for eachother.”“What did you tell the

police?”“Almostnothing.”“Not a good time to be

keepingthingsunderwraps.”

“Notreally,no.”“Maybe Salander is

preparedtomakeastatement,so you can get some peaceandquiet.”“I don’t want to put any

pressureonher.She’s inbadshape.CanyougetZandertoask her if we can send adoctoroutthere?”“Iwill.Butyouknow…”“What?”

“I’m actually cominground to the idea that she’sdoingtherightthing,”Bergersaid.“Why do you say that, all

ofasudden?”“Because I too have my

sources. Police headquartersisn’t a secure place rightnow,” she said, and walkedover to Zander with adeterminedstride.

CHAPTER19

22.xi,Evening

Bublanskiwasstandingaloneinhisoffice.IntheendHans

FastehadadmittedtokeepingSäpo informed, and withouteven listening to hisjustification Bublanskiremoved him from theinvestigation.Butevenifthathadprovidedfurtherevidencethat Faste was anunscrupulous opportunist, hecould not bring himself tobelievethat themanhadalsobeen leaking to criminals.Inevitably therewere corrupt

and depraved people in theforce.But to deliver a small,mentally disabled boy intothe hands of a cold-bloodedmurderer was beyond thepale, and he refused tobelieve that anyone in theforce would be capable ofthat. Perhaps the informationhadseepedoutbysomeotherroute.Theirtelephonesmightbe tapped or they had beenhacked,althoughhecouldnot

think that notes aboutAugust’s abilities had beenwritten in any computer. Hehad been trying to reach theSäpo head, Helena Kraft, todiscuss the matter. He hadstressedthatitwasimportant,but she had not returned hiscall.The Swedish Trade

Council and the Ministry ofEnterprisehadbeenontohim,which was worrisome. Even

if itwasnot said in somanywords, their main concernwas not for the boy or theshooting on Sveavägen, butrather for the researchprogramme which FransBalder hadbeenworkingon,whichappeared tohavebeenstolen on the night of hismurder.Severalof themostskilled

computer technicians in theforce and three I.T. experts

from Linköping Universityand the Royal Institute ofTechnology had been to thehouse in Saltsjöbaden, butthey had found no trace ofthis research, either on hiscomputers or among thepapers which he had leftbehind.“So now, on top of

everything else, we have anArtificial Intelligence on theloose,”Bublanskimutteredto

himself.Hewas remindedofanoldriddlehismischievouscousinSamuellikedtoputtohis friends in synagogue. Itwas a paradox: if God isindeedomnipotent,ishethencapableofcreatingsomethingmoreintelligentthanhimself?The riddle was considereddisrespectful, he recalled,evenblasphemous.Ithadthatevasive quality which meantthat, however you answered,

youwerewrong.Therewasaknock at the door, andBublanski was brought backto the questions at hand. Itwas Modig, ceremoniouslyhandingoveranotherpieceofSwissorangechocolate.“Thank you,” he said.

“Have you got anythingnew?”“We think we know how

thekillersgotLindénandtheboyoutofthebuilding.They

sentfakeemailsfromourandProfessor Edelman’saddresses and arranged apick-uponthestreet.”“Isthatpossible?”“Yes, and it’s not even

verydifficult.”“Terrifying.”“True,butthatstilldoesn’t

explain how they knew toaccess the Oden’s MedicalCentrecomputer,orhowthey

found out that Edelman wasinvolved.”“I suppose we’d better

have our own computerschecked out,”Bublanski saidgloomily.“Alreadyinhand.”“Is this how it was meant

to be, that we won’t dare towriteorsayanythingforfearofbeingoverheard?”“I don’t know. I hope not.

Meanwhile we have a Jacob

Charroouttherewaitingtobeinterviewed.”“Who’she?”“A footballer, plays for

SyrianF.C.Andhe’sthemanwho drove the woman andAugust Balder away fromSveavägen.”

Amuscular young man withshort dark hair and highcheekboneswassittinginthe

interview room. He waswearing a mustard-colouredV-neck pullover without ashirt and seemed at onceagitatedandalittleproud.Modigopenedwith:“18.35

on November 22. Interviewwith witness Jacob Charro,twenty-two years old,resident in Norborg. Tell uswhathappenedthismorning.”“Well …” Charro said. “I

wasdrivingalongSveavägen

andnoticedsomecommotionin the street ahead of me. Ithought there’d been anaccident, so I slowed down.But then I saw a man comefrom the left and run acrossthe road. He ran out withoutevenlookingatthetrafficandI remember thinkinghemustbeaterrorist.”“Whyisthat?”“Heseemed tobebursting

withthissacredfury.”

“Wereyouabletoseewhathelookedlike?”“Not really, but since then

it’s struck me that there wassomethingunnaturalabouthisface.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Like it wasn’t his real

face. He was wearingsunglasses which must havebeensecuredaroundhisears,buthischeeks,itlookedasifhe had something in his

mouth, I don’t know. Thenthere was hismoustache andeyebrows, and the colour ofhisskin.”“Do you think he was

wearingamask?”“Somethinglikethat.ButI

didn’t have time to think toomuchaboutit.BeforeIknewitthereardoorofthecarwasyanked open and then …whatcanIsay?Itwasoneofthose moments when

everything happens all atonce – the whole worldcomes down onto your head.Suddenlytherewerestrangersin my car and the rearwindscreenshattered.Iwasinshock.”“Whatdidyoudo?”“I accelerated like crazy.

The girl who jumped in wasshoutingatmetodrive,andIwas so scared I hardly knew

what I was doing. I justfollowedorders.”“Orders?”“That’s how it seemed. I

reckoned we were beingchased, and I didn’t see anyother way out. I keptswerving and that, just likethe girl told me to, andbesides…”“Goon.”“There was something

about her voice. It was so

cold and intense, I foundmyselfhangingon to it,as ifit were the only thing thatwas in control in all themayhem.”“Yousaidyouthoughtyou

recognizedthewoman?”“Yes, but not at the time,

definitelynot.Iwasscaredtodeath and was busyconcentratingonalltheweirdthings that were happening.

Therewas blood all over theplacebackthere.”“Coming from the boy or

thewoman?”“Iwasn’t sure at first, and

neither of them seemed toknoweither.ButthenIheardhersaysomethinglike‘Yes!’,like something good hadhappened.”“Whatwasthatabout?”“The girl realized she was

the one bleeding and not the

boy, and that really struckme.Itwaslike,‘Hurray,I’vebeen shot,’ and I tell you, itwasn’t some little graze.Howevershetriedtobandageit, she couldn’t staunch theblood.Itjustkeptoozingout,andthegirlkeptgettingpalerandpaler.Shemusthavefeltlikeshit.”“And still she was happy

that it wasn’t the boy who’dbeenhit.”

“Exactly.Likeamother.”“Butshewasn’tthechild’s

mother.”“No. They didn’t even

know each other, she said,and that became more andmore obvious. She didn’thaveaclueaboutchildren.”“On the whole,” Modig

said, “howdid you think shetreatedtheboy?”“Not sure how to answer

that, tobehonest. Iwouldn’t

say she had the world’s bestsocial skills. She treated melikeadamnservant,butevenso…”“Yes?”“I reckon she was a good

person. I wouldn’t havewanted her to be mybabysitter, if you see what Imean.ButshewasO.K.”“Soyoureckonthechildis

safewithher?”

“She’s obviously fuckingcrazy. But the little boy …he’scalledAugust,right?”“That’scorrect.”“She’ll guard August with

herlife,ifitcomestoit.Thatwasmyimpression.”“How did you part

company?”“She asked me to drive

themtoMosebacketorg.”“Isthatwhereshelives,on

thesquare?”

“I have no idea. She gaveme no explanationwhatsoever, but I got thefeeling she had some otherkind of transport from there.Shedidn’tsaymorethanwasnecessary.She just askedmetowritedownmydetails.Shewas going to pay for thedamage to the car, she said,plusalittleextra.”“Did she look as though

shehadmoney?”

“Going by her appearancealone, I’d say she lived in adump. But the way shebehaved… I don’t know. Itwouldn’t surprise me if shewas loaded. You could tellthat she was used to gettingherownway.”“Whathappenedthen?”“Shetoldtheboytogetout

ofthecar.”“Anddidhe?”

“He just rockedbackwardsand forwards and didn’tmove. But then her tonehardened. She said it was amatter of life and death orsomething like that, and hetotteredoutofthecarwithhisarms stiff, as if he wassleepwalking.”“Did you see where they

went?”“Onlythatitwastotheleft

– towards Slussen. But the

girl…”“Yes?”“Well, she was obviously

feeling like shit. She wasweavingaboutandseemedonthepointofcollapse.”“Doesn’t soundgood.And

theboy?”“Probably wasn’t in great

shape either.Hewas lookingreallyodd.Thewholetimeinthe car I worried he wasgoingtohavesomesortoffit.

But when he got out heseemedtohavecometotermswiththesituation.Inanycasehekeptasking,‘Where?’overandover.‘Where?’”Modig and Bublanski

lookedateachother.“Areyousureaboutthat?”

Modigsaid.“Whyshouldn’tIbe?”“Well, you might have

thoughtyouheardhimsaying

that because he had aquestioninglookonhisface.”“Why would I have

thoughtthat?”“Because theboy’smother

says he doesn’t speak at all,hasneversaidasingleword,”Modigsaid.“Areyoujoking?”“No, and it would be odd

for him to suddenly startspeaking under these verycircumstances.”

“IheardwhatIheard.”“O.K., and what did the

womananswer?”“‘Away’, I think. ‘Away

from here.’ Something likethat. Then she almostcollapsed,likeIsaid.Andshetoldmetodriveoff.”“Andyoudid?”“Likeabatoutofhell.”“And then you realized

whoyou’dhadinyourcar?”

“I’d already worked outthat the boy was the son ofthat genius who’d beenmurdered.Butthegirl…shevaguely reminded me ofsomeone.Iwasshakinglikealeafandin theendIcouldn’tdrive anymore. I stoppedonRingvägen, by Skanstull, gotmyselfabeeratClarionHoteland tried to calmdown.Andthat’s when it hitme. It wasthe girl who was wanted for

murder a few years ago, butthen the charges weredropped,anditcameoutthatshe’d been through someterrible things in a mentalhospital when she was achild. I remember it well –thefatherofafriendofminehad been tortured in Syria,and he was having more orless the same stuff done tohimat the time, electroshocktherapy and that sort of shit,

becausehecouldn’tdealwithhis memories. It was like hewas being tortured all overagain.”“Areyousureaboutthat?”“Thathewastortured?”“No, that it was her,

LisbethSalander.”“Ilookedatallthepictures

online and there’s no doubtabout it. There were otherthings that fit too, you know…”

Charro hesitated, as ifembarrassed.“She took off her T-shirt

because she needed to use itas a bandage, and when sheturned to wrap it around hershoulderIsawthatshehadalargetattooofadragonalltheway up her back. That sametattoo was mentioned in oneof the old newspaperarticles.”

Berger arrived at Grane’ssummer house with severalshopping bags filled withfood, crayons and paper, acouple of difficult puzzlesand a few other things. Butthere was no sign of AugustorSalander.Salanderhadnotresponded, either on herRedphone app or on theencrypted link. Berger wassickwithanxiety.

Whicheverwayshelookedat it, this did not bode well.Admittedly Salanderwas notknown for needlesscommunication orreassurance, but it was shewho had asked for a safehouse. Also she hadresponsibilityforachild,andifshewasnotansweringtheircalls under thosecircumstances,shemustbeinabadway.

Berger cursed aloud andwalked out onto the terracewhere she and Grane hadbeensittingandtalkingaboutescapingfromtheworld.Thatwas only a few months ago,but it felt like an age. Therewas no table now, no chairs,nobottles,nohubbubbehindthem, only snow, branchesanddebris flung thereby thestorm. It was as if life itselfhad abandoned the place.

Somehowthememoryofthatcrayfish party increased thesense of desolation, as if thefestivitieswere draped like aghostoveritswalls.Berger went back into the

kitchen and put somemicrowaveable food into therefrigerator: meatballs,packets of spaghetti withmeat sauce, sausagestroganoff, fish pie, potatocakesandawholelotofeven

worse junk food Blomkvisthad advised her to buy:Billy’s Pan Pizza, piroshki,chips, Coca-Cola, a bottle ofTullamore Dew, a carton ofcigarettes, three bags ofcrisps,threebarsofchocolateand some sticks of freshliquorice.Shesetoutdrawingpaper, crayons, pencils, aneraser and a ruler andcompass on the large roundtable. On the top sheet of

paper she drew a sun and aflower and wrote the wordWELCOME in four warmcolours.The house was close to

Ingarö beach, but you couldnot see it from there. It layhigh up on the rockpromontory, concealedbehindpinetrees.Itconsistedof four rooms. The kitchenwith glass doors onto theterrace was the largest and

alsotheheartofthehouse.Inaddition to the round tabletherewasanoldrockingchairand twoworn, sagging sofaswhich nonetheless managedto look inviting thanks to apairofredtartanrugs.Itwasacosyhome.It was also a good safe

house. Berger left the dooropen, put thekeys in the topdrawer of the hall closet, asagreed, and made her way

back down the flight ofwooden steps flanking thesteep, smooth rock slope –theonlywaytothehouseforanyonearrivingbycar.The sky was dark and

turbulent, the wind blowinghard again. Her spirits werelow and did not improveduring the drive home. Herthoughts turned to HannaBalder. Berger had notexactlybeenamemberofthe

fanclub–Hannaoftenplayedthepartsofwomenwhowereboth sexy and dim-witted,whom all men thought theycouldseduce,andBergerwasdisgusted by the filmindustry’s devotion to thattypeofcharacter.Butnoneofthat was true any longer andBerger regretted that she hadbeen so ungracious at thetime. She had been too hardon the woman; it was much

too easy to criticize when apretty girl gets a big breakearlyinhercareer.Nowadays, on the rare

occasions Hanna Balderappeared in a majorproduction,hereyestendedtoreflect a restrained sorrow,whichgavedepthtothepartsshe played, and – what didBerger know? – that mayhave been genuine. She hadbeen through some difficult

times, not least the pasttwenty-four hours. Sincemorning, Berger had beeninsisting thatHannabe takentoAugust. Thiswas surely asituation in which a childneededhismothermore thanever.ButSalander,whowasstill

communicating with them atthetime,hadbeenagainsttheidea.No-oneyetknewwherethe leak had come from, she

had written, and they couldnot rule out the mother’simmediate circle. LasseWestman for one, whomnobody trusted,seemed tobestayinginthehousealldaytoavoid the journalists campedoutside.Theywereinabind,andBergerdidnotlikeit.ShehopedMillenniumwouldstillbe able to tell the storywithdignityanddepth,withoutthemagazine or anyone else

coming to harm. She had nodoubt that Blomkvist wouldbeup to it,given thewayhelookedrightnow.Besides,hehadZandertohelphim.Berger had a soft spot for

Zander. Not long ago, overdinner at her and Greger’shomeinSaltsjöbaden,hehadtoldthemhislifestory,whichhad only increased hersympathy.

When Zander was elevenhe lost both his parents in abombblastinSarajevo.AfterthathecametoliveinTenstaoutside Stockholm with anauntwho altogether failed tonotice either his intellectualdisposition or thepsychological wounds hebore. He had not been therewhenhisparentswerekilled,buthisbodyreactedstillasifhe were suffering from post-

traumatic stress. To this dayhe detested loud noises andsuddenmovements.Hehatedseeing unattended bags inpublic places, and loathedviolence with a passionBergerhadneverencounteredinanyoneelse.Asachildhesoughtrefuge

in his own worlds. Heimmersed himself in fantasyliterature, read poetry andbiographies, adored Sylvia

Plath, Borges and Tolkienand learned everything therewas to know aboutcomputers. He dreamed ofwriting heart-rending novelsabout love and humantragedy,andwasanincurableromantic who hoped thatgreat passion would heal hiswounds. He was not in theleast bit interested in theoutsideworld.Oneeveninginhis late teens, however, he

attended a public lecturegivenbyMikaelBlomkvistatthe Institute for MediaStudies at StockholmUniversity. It changed hislife.Blomkvist’s fervour

inspired him to bear witnessto a world which wasbleeding with injustice,intolerance and pettycorruption. He started toimagine himself writing

articles critical of societyinstead of tear-jerkingromances.Not longafter thathe knocked onMillennium’sdoor and asked if there wasanything they would let himdo –make coffee, proofread,runerrands.Berger,whohadseen thefire inhiseyes rightfrom the start, assigned himsome minor editorial tasks:public notices, research andbriefportraits.Butmostofall

shetoldhimtostudy,andhedid so with the same energyhe put into everything else.He read political science,mass-media communications,finance and internationalconflict resolution,andat thesame time he helped out ontemporary assignments atMillennium.He wanted to become a

heavyweight investigativejournalist, like Blomkvist.

But unlike so many otherinvestigative journalists hewas no tough guy. Heremained a romantic.Blomkvist and Berger hadbothspent time trying tosortouthisrelationshipproblems.He was too open andtransparent. Too good, asBlomkvistwouldoftensay.But Berger believed that

Zanderwas in theprocessofshedding that youthful

vulnerability. She had beenseeing the change in hisjournalism. That ferociousambition to reach out andtouch people, which hadmade his writing heavy-handed at first, had beenreplacedbyamoreeffective,matter-of-fact style. Sheknew he would pull out allthe stops now that he hadbeengiventhechancetohelpBlomkvist with the Balder

story. The plan was forBlomkvist to write the big,central narrative, and forZander to help with theresearch as well as writingsome explanatory sidebars.Berger thought they made agreatteam.After parking on Hökens

gata she walked into theoffices and found BlomkvistandZandersittingthere,deepin concentration, just as she

expected. Every now andthen, however, Blomkvistmuttered to himself and shesawthatmagnificentsenseofpurposeinhiseyes,buttherewas also suffering. He hadhardly slept all night. Themedia campaign against himhad not let up and in hispolice interviews he had hadtodotheverythingthepressaccused him of – withhold

information. Blomkvist didnotlikeitoneatom.He was in many ways a

model, law-abiding citizen.But if therewas anyonewhocould get him to cross theline, itwasLisbethSalander.Blomkvist would ratherdishonourhimselfthanbetrayher, which is why he keptrepeating to the police: “Iassertmy right toprotectmysources.” Nowonder he was

unhappy and worried aboutthe consequences. But, likeBerger, he had far greaterfearsforSalanderandtheboythanfortheirownsituation.“How’s it going?” she

asked,afterwatchinghimforawhile.“What? … Well … O.K.

Howwasitoutthere?”“I made up the beds and

putfoodinthefridge.”

“Good.Andtheneighboursdidn’tseeyou?”“There wasn’t a soul

there.”“Why are they taking so

long?”hesaid.“Ijustdon’tknow,butI’m

worriedsick.”“Let’shope they’re resting

atLisbeth’s.”“Let’s hope so. What else

didyoufindout?”

“Quite a bit. But …”Blomkvisttrailedoff.“Yes?’“It’s just that…it feelsas

if I’m being thrown back intime, going back to placesI’vebeentobefore.”“You’ll have to explain

better,”shesaid.“I will …” Blomkvist

glanced at his computerscreen. “But first I have tokeep on digging. Let’s speak

later,”hesaid,andsoshelefthim and got her things todrive home, although shewould be ready to stay withhimatasecond’snotice.

CHAPTER20

23.xi

The night turned out to becalm,alarminglycalm,andat

8.00 in the morning abrooding Bublanski stoodfacinghisteaminthemeetingroom. Having kicked outFaste,he felt reasonably surethat he could talk freelyagain.Atleasthefeltsaferinherewithhiscolleagues thanat his computer, or on hismobile.“You all appreciate how

serious the situation is,” hesaid. “Confidential

information has been leaked.One person is dead as aresult.Asmallboy’slifeisindanger. In spite of immenseefforts we still don’t knowhow this happened. The leakcouldhavebeenatourend,oratSäpo,oratOden’sMedicalCentre, or in the grouparoundProfessorEdelman,orfrom the boy’s mother andher partner, Lasse Westman.Weknownothingforcertain,

and therefore we have to beextremely circumspect,paranoideven.”“We may also have been

hacked or phonetapped,”Modig said. “We seem to bedealingwithcriminalswhosecommand of newtechnologies is far beyondanythingwe’veseenbefore.”“Very true,” Bublanski

said. “We need to takeprecautionsateverylevel,not

say anything significantrelatingtothisinvestigation–or to any other – over thetelephone, no matter howhighly our superiors rate ournewmobile-phonesystem.”“They think it’s great

because it cost so much toinstall,”Holmbergsaid.“Maybeweshouldalsobe

reflecting a little on our ownrole,” Bublanski said,ignoring him. “I was just

talking to a gifted younganalyst at Säpo, GabriellaGrane–youmayhaveheardof her. She pointed out thatthe concept of loyalty is notas straightforward as onemightthinkforuspolicemen.We have many differentloyalties, don’t we? There’sthe obvious one, to the law.There’s a loyalty to thepublic, and to one’scolleagues, but also to our

bosses, and to ourselves andourcareers.Sometimes,asallof you know, these interestsend up competing with eachother. We might choose toprotect a colleague at workandtherebyfailinourdutytothe public, or we might begiven orders from higher up,as Hans Faste was, and thenthatconflictswiththeloyaltyheshouldhavehadtous.Butfrom now on – and I’m

deadly serious – there’s onlyoneloyaltyIwanttohearof,andthatistotheinvestigationitself. We’re going to catchthe murderers and we’regoing to make sure that no-oneelse fallsvictim to them.Agreed? Even if the primeminister himself or the headof the C.I.A. calls and goesonaboutpatriotismandmajorcareeropportunities,you stillwon’tutterapeep,willyou?”

“No,”theysaid,asone.“Excellent. As we all

know, the person whointervenedonSveavägenwasnone other than LisbethSalander, and we’re doingeverything in our power tofindoutwheresheis.”“Which is why we’ve got

to release her name to themedia!”Svensson called out,somewhat heatedly. “Weneedhelpfromthepublic.”

“Wedon’tallagreeonthis,so I’d like to raise thequestion again. Let’sremember that in the pastLisbeth Salander has hadsome very shabby treatment,from us and from the media…”“At this point that doesn’t

matter,”Svenssonsaid.“And it’s conceivable that

people recognized her onSveavägenandhernamewill

come out at any momentanyway, in which case thiswould no longer be an issue.Butbeforethathappens,bearin mind that she saved theboy’slife.”“No doubt about that,”

Svensson said. “But then shemoreorlesskidnappedhim.”“Our information suggests

that she was determined toprotect the boy at all costs,”Modig said. “Salander’s

experience of publicinstitutionshasbeenanythingbut positive – her entirechildhoodwasmarredby theinjustices inflicted on her bySwedish officialdom. If shesuspects, as we do, thatthere’s a leak inside thepolice force, then there’s nochanceshe’sgoingtocontactus.Fact.”“That’s irrelevant,”

Svenssoninsisted.

“Maybe,”Modigsaid.“JanandIshareyourviewthatthemost important thing here iswhetherit’sintheinterestsofthe investigation to releaseher name. And as to theinvestigation, our priority isthe boy’s safety, and that’swherewehaveabigelementofuncertainty.”“I follow your reasoning,”

Holmberg said in a low,thoughtful tone which

immediately commandedeveryone’s attention. “Ifpeople know of Salander’sinvolvementthentheboywillbeatrisk.Butthatstillleavesanumberofquestions–first:what’stheethicalthingtodo?And I have to say, even ifthere’s been a leak here wecannot accept that Salandershould keep the boy hiddenaway. He’s a crucial part ofthe investigation and, leakor

no leak, we’re better atprotecting a child than anemotionally disturbed youngwomancouldeverbe.”“Absolutely. Of course,”

Bublanskimuttered.“And even if this isn’t a

kidnapping in the ordinarysense–yes,even if it’sbeencarried out with the best ofintentions – the potentialharm to the child could bejust as great. Psychologically

it must be hugely damagingfor him to be, as it were, onthe run after everything he’sbeenthrough.”“True,” Bublanski said.

“But the question stillremains:howdowedealwiththeinformationwehave?”“There I agree with Curt.

Wehave to releasehernameandphotographrightaway.Itcould produce invaluableleads.”

“Probably,” Bublanskisaid.“Butitcouldatthesametimehelpthekillers.Wehaveto assume that they haven’tgivenuplookingfortheboy.Quite the opposite in fact.And since we have no ideawhat the connection isbetween the boy andSalander, we don’t knowwhat sort of clues her namewouldprovidethemwith.I’mnot persuaded thatwewould

be protecting the boy bygiving the media thesedetails.”“Butneitherdoweknowif

we’re protecting him byholding them back,”Holmberg said. “There aretoomanypiecesofthepuzzlemissing for us to draw anyconclusions. Is Salanderdoing this for someone else,for example? Or does shehave her own agenda for the

child, apart from to protecthim?”“And how could she have

known that Torkel Lindénand the boywould come outonto Sveavägen at that exactmoment?”Svenssonsaid.“Maybe she just happened

tobethere.”“Doesn’tseemlikely.”“The truth is often

unlikely,” Bublanski said.“That’s the nature of truth.

But I agree, it doesn’t feellike a coincidence in thiscase, not under thecircumstances.”“What about the fact that

Mikael Blomkvist also knewsomething was going tohappen?”AmandaFlodsaid.“There’s some sort of

connection betweenBlomkvist and Salander,”Holmbergsaid.“True.”

“Blomkvist knew that theboy was at Oden’s MedicalCentre,didn’the?”“The mother told him,”

Bublanski said. “As youmight imagine, she’s feelingquitedesperatenow.I’vejusthad a long conversationwithher.But therewas no reasonon earth why Blomkvistshould have known thatLindénandtheboywouldbe

tricked into going out ontothestreet.”“Couldhehavehadaccess

to a computer at Oden’s?”Flodsaidpensively.“I can’t imagine Mikael

Blomkvistgettinginvolvedinhacking,”Modigsaid.“But what about

Salander?” Holmberg said.“What do we actually knowabout her? We have amassive file on the girl. Yet

thelasttimewehadanythingto dowith her, she surprisedus on every count. Maybeappearances are just asdeceptivethistimearound.”“I agree,” Svensson said.

“We have far too manyquestionmarks.”“Questionmarks are about

all we have. And that’sexactlywhyweoughttosticktotherules,”Holmbergsaid.

“I didn’t realize the rulebookcoveredquitesomuch,”Bublanski said, with asarcasmheregretted.“I only mean that we

shouldtakethisforwhatitis– the kidnapping of a child.They disappeared almosttwenty-four hours ago. Wehaven’t heard a word fromthem. We should put outSalander’s name and pictureand then lookcarefully at all

the tip-offs that come in,”Holmbergsaidwithauthority.He seemed to have thebacking of the whole group,and at that Bublanski closedhiseyesandreflected thatheloved them all. He felt agreateraffinitywithhis teamthan he did for his ownbrothers and sisters, or evenhisparents.But rightnowhefelt compelled to disagreewiththem.

“We’ll do everything wecan to try to find them. Butforthetimebeingwewillnotrelease thenameandpicture.That would only make thesituationmore fraught, and Idon’twant to risk giving thekillersanyleadsatall.”“And you feel guilty,”

Holmberg said, withoutwarmth.“I feel very guilty,”

Bublanski said, thinking of

hisrabbi.

Blomkvist was so worriedabout the boy and Salanderthathehardlyslept.Timeandagain he had tried to reachSalander via the Redphoneapp, but she had notanswered.Hehadnotheardaword from her sinceyesterday afternoon. Now hewas sitting in the office,

trying to immerse himself inhisworkand figureoutwhatit was that had escaped him.Forsometimealreadyhehadhad a sense – impossible toput his finger on– that therewas a key piece missing,something which could shedlight on the whole story.Perhaps he was foolinghimself. Maybe it was justwishful thinking, a need tosee a grand design. The last

messagefromSalanderontheencryptedlinkwas:

<Jurij Bogdanov. Check himout. He’s the one who soldBalder’s technology toEckerwald at Solifon.>Thereweresomeimagesof

Bogdanov on the net. Theyshowed him wearingpinstriped suits which fitperfectlybutstillmanagedtolook wrong on him, as if hehadstolenthemonthewaytothe photographer’s.

Bogdanov had long, lankhair, a pockmarked face andlargeringsunderhiseyesandyoucouldjustaboutmakeoutsome amateurish tattoosbeneath his shirt cuffs. Hislook was dark, intense andpiercing. He was tall, but hecannot have weighed morethansixtykilos.He looked like an old

jailbird, but, most striking,there was something about

his body language whichBlomkvist recognized fromthe images on thesurveillance cameras atBalder’splace.Themangavethe same tattered, rough-edgedimpression.Therewerealso interviews

he had given as abusinessman in Berlin inwhich he vouchsafed that hehadbeenbornmoreorlessonthestreets.“Iwasdoomedto

end up dead in an alleywaywith a needle stuck in myarm. But I managed to pullmyself out of the muck. I’mintelligentandI’monehellofafighter,”hesaid.Therewasnothing in the details of hislifetocontradicttheseclaims,savefor thesuspicionthathemay not have been raisedexclusively through his ownefforts. There were clues tosuggest he had been given a

helping hand by powerfulpeople who had spotted histalent. In a Germantechnology magazine, asecurity chief at the Horstcredit institution was quotedas saying, “Bogdanov hasmagic in his eyes. He candetect vulnerabilities insecurity systems like no-oneelse.He’sagenius.”So Bogdanov was a star

hacker, although the official

version had him acting onlyas a “white hat”, someonewho served the good, legalside, who helped companiesidentify flaws in their I.T.security in exchange fordecent compensation. Therewas nothing in the leastsuspicious about hiscompany, Outcast Security.The boardmembers were allrespectable, well-educatedpeople.ButBlomkvistdidnot

leaveitatthat.HeandZanderscrutinized every individualwhohadhadanycontactwiththecompany,evenpartnersofpartners,andtheynoticedthatsomebody called Orlov hadbeenadeputyboardmemberforashorttime.Thisseemedstrange, because VladimirOrlovwasnoI.T.man,butaminor player in theconstruction sector. He hadonce been a promising

heavyweight boxer in theCrimea and, judging by thefewpicturesBlomkvistfoundonline,helookedravagedandbrutal.Therewererumoursthathe

had been convicted ofgrievous bodily harm andprocuring. He had beenmarried twice – both wiveswere dead, and Blomkvisthad not been able to find acauseofdeath in either case.

But the most interestingdiscovery he made was thatthe man had served as asubstituteboardmemberofacompany – minor and long-since defunct – by the nameof Bodin Construction &Export, which had dealt in“sales of constructionmaterials”.Theownerofthecompany

had been Karl Axel Bodin,the alias of Alexander

Zalachenko, a name thatrevivedmemories of the evilconspiracywhichbecame thesubject of Millennium’sgreatest scoop. Zalachenkowho was Salander’s father,and her dark shadow, theblack heart behind herthrobbing determination toexactrevenge.Was it a coincidence that

his name had cropped up?Blomkvist knew better than

anyone that if you dig deepenough into a story, youwillalways find links. Life isconstantly treating us toillusory connections. It wasjust that, when it came toLisbeth Salander, he stoppedbelievingincoincidence.If she broke a surgeon’s

fingers or delved into thetheft of some advanced A.I.technology,youcouldbesurethatshehadnotonlythought

it through to the lastparticle,shewouldalsohaveareason.Salander was not one toforget an injustice. Sheretaliated and she rightedwrongs. Could herinvolvement in this story beconnected to her ownbackground? It was by nomeansinconceivable.Blomkvist looked up from

his computer and glanced atZander. Zander nodded back

at him. The faint smell ofsomething cooking wascoming from the kitchen.Thudding rock music couldbe heard from Götgatan.Outside the storm washowling,andtheskywasstilldark and wild. Blomkvistwent into the encrypted linkoutofhabit,notexpecting tofind anything. But then hisface litup.Heeven letout asmallwhoopofjoy.

Itsaid:<OK now. We’ll be going tothe safe house shortly.>Hewrote:<Great news. Drivecarefully.>Then he could not resist

adding:<Who are we actually after?>Sheansweredatonce:<You’ll soon work it out,smartarse!>“O.K.” was an

exaggeration. Salander was

better, but still in bad shape.For half of yesterday, in herapartment, she had beenbarely conscious and onlymanaged with the greatestdifficulty to drag herself outofbedtoseethatAugusthadsomething to eat and drinkandmakesurehehadpencils,crayonsandpaper.Butassheapproached him now shecould see even from a

distance that he had drawnnothing.There was paper scattered

all over the coffee table infrontofhim,butnodrawings.Instead she saw rows ofscribbles. More absent-mindedly than out ofcuriosity she tried to makeoutwhat theywere – he hadwritten numbers, endlessseriesofnumbers,andevenifatfirsttheymadenosenseto

her, she was intrigued.Suddenlyshegaveawhistle.“Oh my God,” she

muttered.They were staggeringly

large numbers which formeda familiar pattern alongsidethenumbersnexttothem.Asshelookedthroughthepapersand came across the simplesequence 641, 647, 653 and659, therewasno longeranydoubt: they were sexy prime

quadruplets,sexyinthesensethat they differed from eachotherbysix.There were also twin

primes, and every otherimaginable combination ofprimenumbers.Shecouldnothelpbutsmile.“Awesome.”But August neither

responded nor looked up ather.He justkeptkneelingbythe coffee table, as if hewanted nothingmore than to

goonwritinghisnumbers.Itoccurred to her that she hadreadsomethingaboutsavantsand prime numbers, but sheput it out of her mind. Shewas far too unwell for anykind of advanced thinking.Instead she went into thebathroomand took twomoreVibramycinantibioticswhichhadbeen lyingaround inherapartmentforyears.

She packed her pistol andher computer, a few changesof clothes and to be on thesafesidesheputonawiganda pair of dark glasses.Whenshe was ready she asked theboy to get up. He did notrespond, just held his pencilina tightgrip.Foramomentshe stood in front of him,stumped. Then she saidsternly,“Getup!”andhedid.

They put on their outerlayers, took the lift down tothegarageandsetoff for thesafehouseonIngarö.Herleftshoulderwas tightly strappedand it ached, so she steeredwith her right hand. The topof her chestwas hurting, shehadafeverandhadtostopacoupleof timesat thesideoftheroadtorest.Whenfinallytheygot to thebeachand thejetty by Stora Barnvik on

Ingarö, and followed thedirections to climb thewoodenstepsup the slope tothe house, she collapsedexhaustedonthefirstbedshesaw. She was shivering andfreezingcold.Soon after, breathing

laboriously, she got up andsat at the kitchen table withher laptop, and tried oncemoretocrackthefileshehaddownloaded from the N.S.A.

But she did not even comeclose.Augustsatnext toher,looking stiffly at the pile ofpaperandcrayonsBergerhadleft for him, no longerinterested in prime numbers,still less in drawing pictures.Perhapshewasinshock.

The man who called himselfJan Holtser was sitting in aroom at the Clarion Hotel

Arlanda, talking on thetelephone with his daughter.As he had expected, she didnotbelievehim.“Are you scared of me?”

shesaid.“AreyouafraidI’mgoingtocross-examineyou?”“No,Olga,absolutelynot,”

hesaid.“It’sjustthat…”He could not find the

words. He knew Olga couldtellhewashidingsomething,and ended the conversation

sooner than he wanted to.Bogdanovwassittingnext tohim on the hotel bed,swearing. He had beenthroughBalder’s computer atleast a hundred times andfound“fuckall”,asheputit.“Notasinglefuckingthing!”“I stole a computer with

nothingonit,”Holtsersaid.“Right.”“Sowhatwastheprofessor

usingitfor?”

“For something veryimportant, clearly. I can seethat a large file, presumablyconnectedtoothercomputers,was deleted recently. But Ican’t recover it.Heknewhisstuff,thatguy.”“Useless,”Holtsersaid.“Completely fucking

useless.”“AndtheBlackphone?”“Thereareacoupleofcalls

I haven’t been able to trace,

presumablyfromtheSwedishsecurity services or theN.D.R.E. But there’ssomething bothering memuchmore.”“What’sthat?”“A long conversation the

professorhad justbeforeyoustormedin–hewastalkingtosomeone at the M.I.R.I.,Machine IntelligenceResearchInstitute.”

“What’s the problem withthat?”“The timing – I get the

feeling he was having somesort of crisis. Also thisinstituteworks to ensure thatintelligent computers don’tbecomeathreattomankind–it doesn’t look good. BaldercouldhavegiventheM.I.R.I.hisresearchor…”“Orwhat?”

“Or he could have spilledthebeansonus,atleastwhatheknew.”“Thatwouldbebad.”Bogdanov nodded and

Holtser swore quietly.Nothinghadgoneasplannedandneitherofthemwasusedto failing.Butherewere twomajormistakes ina row,andall because of a child, aretardedchild.

Thatwas bad enough. Buttheworst of it was thatKirawas on her way, and itsounded like she had lost it.Neither of themwas used tothat either. On the contrary,they had grown accustomedto her cool elegance, the airof invincibility it gave theiroperations. Now she wasfurious, completely off thewall, screaming at them thatthey were useless,

incompetent cretins. It wasnot somuch that those shotsmight have missed Balder’sson. It was because of thewomanwhohadappearedoutof nowhere and rescued theboy. That woman sent Kiraaroundthebend.WhenHoltserhadbegunto

describeher–thelittlehehadseen – Kira bombarded himwith questions. Whateveranswerhegaveseemedtobe

wrong, or at least sent herberserk, yelling that theyshould have killed her andthat thiswas typicalof them,brainless, useless. Neither ofthemcouldmakesenseofherviolent reaction – they hadneverheardheryell like thatbefore.Infacttherewasalotthey

did not know about her.Holtser would never forgethiseveningwithherinasuite

at Hotel d’Angleterre inCopenhagen – they had hadsex for the third or fourthtime,and later theyhadbeenlying in bed drinkingchampagne and chattingabout his wars and hismurders,astheysooftendid.While stroking her arm hehad discovered three scarssidebysideonherwrist.“How did you get those,

gorgeous?” he had said, and

gotalookofpureloathinginreturn.Hehadneverbeenallowed

to sleep with her again. Hetookittobeapunishmentforhaving asked. Kira lookedafterthegroupandgavethemalotofmoney.Butneitherhenor Bogdanov, nor anyoneelse in the group, wasallowedtoaskaboutherpast.Thatwasoneoftheunspokenrulesandnoneofthemwould

ever dream of trying. Forbetter or for worse she wastheir benefactor, mostly forbetter, theythought,andtheywent along with her whims,living in constant uncertaintyas to whether she would beaffectionate or cold, or evengive them a brutal, stingingslap.Bogdanov closed the

computerandtookaswallowofhisdrink.Theyweretrying

tolimittheirdrinking,sothatKira would not use thatagainst them. But it wasnearly impossible. Thefrustration and adrenalindrove them to it. Holtserfingered his mobilenervously.“Didn’tOlgabelieveyou?”

Bogdanovsaid.“Not a word. Soon she’ll

see a child’s drawing of meoneverybillboard.”

“I don’t buy that drawingthing. Probably just wishfulthinking on the part of thepolice.”“Sowe’re supposed tokill

achildfornoreason?”“It wouldn’t surprise me.

Shouldn’t Kira be here bynow?”“Anytimenow.”“Who do you think it

was?”“Who?”

“The girl who appearedfromnowhere.”“No idea,” Holtser said.

“Not sureKira knows either.But she’s worried aboutsomething.”“We’ll probably end up

havingtokillthemboth.”“Thatmightbetheleastof

it.”

Augustwas not feelingwell.That was obvious. Redpatches flared on his throatand he was clenching hisfists.Salander,sittingnext tohim at the round table,working on her R.S.A.encryption,wasafraidhewason the verge of some sort offit. But August only pickedupacrayon,ablackone.Atthesamemomentagust

of wind shook the large

windowpanes in front ofthem. August hesitated andmoved his hand back andforth across the table. Butthenhestartedtodraw,alinehere and a line there,followed by some smallcircles, buttons, Salanderthought, then a hand, detailsofachin,anunbuttonedshirtfront. It began to go morequicklyandthetensionintheboy’s back and shoulders

subsided–asifawoundhadburstopenandbeguntoheal.There was a searing,

torturedlookinhiseyes,andevery now and then heshivered. But there was nodoubt that something withinhimhadeased.Hepickedupsomenewcrayonsandstartedto draw an oak-colouredfloor, on which appearedpieces of a puzzle thatseemed to represent a

glittering town at night-time.It was clear even from theunfinished drawing that itwould be anything but apleasantone.The hand and the

unbuttonedshirtfrontbecamepart of a large man with aprotruding belly. He wasstanding, bent like ajackknife, beating a smallperson on the floor, a personwho was not in the drawing

for the simple reason that hewasobserving the scene, andon the receiving end of theblows.It was an ugly scene, no

doubt about that. But eventhough the picture revealedanassailant,itdidnotseemtohave anything to dowith themurder. Right in the middle,at the epicentre of thedrawing, a furious, sweatyfaceappeared,everyfouland

bitter furrow captured withprecision. Salanderrecognized it. She rarelywatched T.V. or went to thecinema, but she knew it wasthe face of the actor LasseWestman, the partner ofAugust’s mother. She leanedforward to the boy and said,withaholy,quiveringrage:“We’ll never let him do

thattoyouagain.Never.”

CHAPTER21

23.xi

Alona Casales knew at oncethat something was wrong

when she saw CommanderIngram’s lanky figureapproach Needham’s desk.You could tell from hishesitantmannerthatthenewswasnotgood.Ingram usually had a

malicious grin on his facewhen he stuck a knife insomeone’s back, but withNeedham it was different.Even the most senior bosseswerescaredofNeedham–he

wouldraiseallhell ifanyonetried to mess with him.Ingram did not like scenes,stilllesshumiliation,andthatwas what awaited him if hepickedafightwithNeedham.WhileNeedhamwasbrash

and explosive, Ingramwas arefined upper-class boy withspindly legs and an affectedmanner.Ingramwasaseriouspower player and hadinfluence where it mattered,

be it inWashingtonor in theworld of business. As amember of the N.S.A.management, he ranked justbelow Admiral CharlesO’Connor.Hemightbequicktosmileandadeptathandingout compliments, but hissmileneverreachedhiseyes.He had leverage over

people and was in charge,among other things, of“monitoring strategic

technologies” – morecynicallyknownas industrialespionage, that part of theN.S.A. which gives theAmerican tech industry ahelping hand in globalcompetition.Hewasfearedasfewotherswere.But now as he stood in

frontofNeedhaminhisfancysuit, his body seemed toshrink. Even from thirtymetres away, Casales knew

exactly what was about tohappen:Needhamwasonthebrink of exploding.His pale,exhaustedfacewasgoingred.Withoutwaitinghegottohisfeet, his back crooked andbent, his belly sticking out,and he roared in a furiousvoice,“Yousleazybastard!”No-onebutNeedhamcould

call Jonny Ingram a “sleazybastard”, and Casales lovedhimforit.

August started on a newdrawing.He sketched a few lines.

He was pressing so hard onthe paper that the blackcrayon broke and, just likethelasttime,hedrewrapidly,one detail here and anotherone there, disparate bitswhich ultimately cametogetherandformedawhole.It was the same room, butthere was a different puzzle

on the floor, easier to makeout:itrepresentedaredsportscar racing by a sea ofshoutingspectatorsinastand.Abovethepuzzlenotonebuttwo men could be seenstanding.OneofthemwasWestman

again. This time he waswearing a T-shirt and shortsand he had bloodshot,squinting eyes. He lookedunsteady and drunk, but no

lessfurious.Hewasdrooling.Yet he was not the morefrightening figure in thedrawing. That was the otherman, whose watery eyesshone with pure sadism. Hetoowasunshavenanddrunk,and he had thin, almost non-existentlips.Heseemedtobekicking August, althoughagain the boy could not beseen in the picture, his very

absence making himextremelypresent.“Who’s the other one?”

Salandersaid.August said nothing. But

his shoulders shook, and hislegstwistedintoaknotunderthetable.“Who’s the other one?”

Salandersaidagain,inamoreforceful tone, and Augustwrote on the drawing in ashaky,childishhand:

Roger – the name meantnothingtoSalander.

A couple of hours later inFortMeade, once his hackerboys had cleaned up afterthemselves and shuffled off,Needham walked over toCasales. The odd thing was,he no longer looked at all

angry or upset. He wasradiant with defiance andcarrying a notebook. One ofhisbraceshadslippedoffhisshoulder.“Hey,bud,”shesaid.“Tell

me,what’sgoingon?”“Igotsomevacationtime,”

he said. “I’m off toStockholm.”“Ofallplaces.Isn’t itcold

thistimeofyear?”

“Freezing, by allaccounts.”“Soyou’renotreallygoing

thereonvacation.”“Strictlybetweenus?”“Goon.”“Ingramordered us to halt

our investigation.Thehackergoesfree,andwe’resupposedto be satisfied with stoppingup a few leaks. Then thewholethinggetssweptunderthecarpet.”

“How the hell can he laydownsomethinglikethat?”“They don’t want to

awakenanysleepingdogs,hesays, and run the risk ofanyone finding out about theattack. It would bedevastating if it evergotout.Justthinkofallthemaliciousglee,andallthepeoplewhoseheads would roll, startingwithyourstruly.”“Hethreatenedyou?”

“Did he ever! Went onabout how I would behumiliated publicly, evensued.”“Youdon’tseemworried.”“I’mgoingtobreakhim.”“How? Our glamour boy

has powerful connectionseverywhere,youknowthat.”“I have a few ofmy own.

Besides,Ingramisn’ttheonlyonewithdirtonpeople.Thatdamn hacker was gracious

enoughtolinkandmatchourcomputer files and show ussome of our own dirtylaundry.”“That’s a bit ironic, isn’t

it?”“It takes a crook to know

one. At first the data didn’tlook all that spectacular, notcompared to the other stuffwe’re doing. But when westartedtogetintoit…”“Yes?”

“It turned out to bedynamite.”“Inwhatway?”“Ingram’s closest

colleagues not only collecttradesecrets tohelpourownmajor companies. Sometimestheyalsosell the informationfor a lot ofmoney.And thatmoney, Alona, doesn’talways find its way into thecoffers of the organization…”

“But into their ownpockets.”“Exactly. I already have

enough evidence on that toput twoofour top industrial-espionage executives behindbars.”“Jesus.”“Unfortunately it’s less

straightforward with Ingram.I’mconvincedhe’sthebrainsbehind the whole thing.Otherwise all of this doesn’t

add up. But I don’t have asmoking gun, not yet, whichmakes the whole operationrisky. There’s always achance – though I wouldn’tbet on it – that the file thehacker downloaded hassomething specific on him.Butit’simpossibletocrack–a goddamn R.S.A.encryption.”“Sowhat areyougoing to

do?”

“Tightenthenet.Showtheworld that our very own co-workers are in cahoots withcriminalorganizations.”“LiketheSpiders.”“Like the Spiders. And

plenty of other bad guys. Itwouldn’t surprise me if theywere involved in the killingof your professor inStockholm. They had a clearinterestinseeinghimdead.”“You’vegottobejoking.”

“I’m completely serious.Your professor knew thingsthat could have blown up intheirfaces.”“Holy shit.Andyou’reoff

to Stockholm like someprivate detective toinvestigateitall?”“Not like a private

detective,Alona.I’mgoingtobe official, and while I’mthere I’m going to give our

hacker such a pummellingshewon’tbeabletostand.”“Wait, Ed. Did I hear you

sayshe?”“You’d better believe it.

Ourhacker’sashe!”

August’s drawings tookSalander back in time. Shethought of that fist beatingrhythmically and relentlesslyonthemattress.

She remembered the thudsand the grunting and thecryingfromthebedroomnextdoor. She remembered thetimesatLundagatanwhenhercomics and fantasies ofrevengewereheronlyrefuge.But she shook off thememories. She changed thedressing on her shoulder.Then she checked her pistol,madesurethat itwasloaded.ShewentontotheP.G.P.link.

Andrei Zander was askinghow theywere,andshegaveashortreply.Outside, the storm was

shaking the treesandbushes.She helped herself to somewhisky and a piece ofchocolate,thenwentoutontothe terrace and from there tothe rock slope where shecarefully reconnoitred theterrain, noticing a small cleftpart way down. She counted

her steps andmemorized thelieoftheland.By the time she got back,

August had made anotherdrawing ofWestman and theRoger person. She supposedheneeded toget itoutofhissystem. But still he had notdrawn anything from thenight of themurder. Perhapstheexperiencewasblockedinhismind.

Salanderwasovercomebya feeling of time runningawayfromthemandshecastaworriedlookatAugust.Foraminuteorsoshefocusedonthe mind-boggling numbershe had put down on papernexttothenewdrawing.Shestudied their structure untilsuddenly she spotted asequencewhichdidnot fit inwiththeothers.

It was relatively short:2305843008139952128. Shegotitimmediately.Itwasnotaprimenumber,itwas–andhere her spirits lifted – anumberwhich,accordingtoaperfect harmony, is made upof the sum of all its positivedivisors. It was, in otherwords,aperfectnumber, justas 6 is because it can bedividedby3,2and1and3+2+1happen toaddup to6.

Shesmiled.Andthenshehadanexhilaratingthought.

“Nowyou’regoingtohavetoexplain yourself,” Casalessaid.“I will,” Needham said.

“Butfirst,eventhoughItrustyou, Ineedyou togivemeasolemn promise that youwon’t say any of this toanybody.”

“Ipromise,youjerk.”“Good. Here’s the story:

after I yelled at Ingram,mostly for the sake ofappearances, I told him hewasright.Ievenpretendedtobegrateful tohimforputtinga stop to our investigation.Wewouldn’thavegottenanyfurtheranyway, I said,and itwas partly true. From apurelytechnicalpointofviewwewereoutofoptions.We’d

done everything and thensome, but it was pointless.The hacker put red herringsall over the place and keptleading us into new mazesand labyrinths. One of myguyssaid thateven ifwegotto the end, against all odds,we wouldn’t believe we’dmade it. We’d just kidourselves that it was a newtrap. We were prepared forjust about anything from this

hacker, anything but flawsand weaknesses. So if wekept going the usual waywe’dhadit.”“You don’t tend to go the

usualway.”“No, I prefer the

roundaboutway.Thetruthis,we hadn’t given up at all.We’d been talking to ourhackercontactsout thereandour friends in the softwarecompanies.Wedidadvanced

searches,surveillanceandourowncomputerbreaches.Yousee, when an attack is ascomplexas thisone,youcanalways be sure there’s beensome research up front.Certain specific questionshave been asked. Certainspecific sites have beenvisitedandinevitablysomeofthat becomes known to us.But there was one factoraboveallthatplayedintoour

hands, Alona: the hacker’sskill.Itwassoincrediblethatit limited the number ofsuspects. Like a criminalsuddenly running a hundredmetres in 9.7 seconds at acrimescene–you’dbeprettysure the guy is a certain MrBoltoroneofhiscloserivals,right?”“Soit’satthatlevel?”“Well, there are parts of

this attack that justmademy

jawdrop,andI’veseenafairamount in my day. That’swhywe spent a hell of a lotoftimetalkingtohackersandinsiders in this industry andasking them who is capableof something really, reallybig? Who are the seriouslybig players these days? Wehad to be pretty smart abouthowweframedourquestions,so that nobody would guesswhatactuallyhappened.Fora

long timewegotnowhere. Itwas like shooting in thedark– like calling out into thedead of night. Nobody knewanything, or they claimedthey didn’t. A few nameswerementioned, but none ofthem felt right. For a whilewe chased down someRussian, a Jurij Bogdanov –an ex-druggie and thief whoapparently can hack intoanything he damnwell likes.

The security companieswerealready trying to recruit himwhen he was living on thestreet in St Petersburg, hot-wiring cars, weighing in atforty kilos of skin and bone.Even the people from thepolice and intelligenceserviceswanted him on theirside. They lost that battle,needless to say. These daysBogdanov looks clean andsuccessful and has ballooned

to sixty kilos of skin andbone, but we’re pretty surehe’soneofthecrooksinyourorganization,Alona.Thatwasanother reason he interestedus. There had to be aconnection to the Spiders,because of the searches thatgotcarriedout,butthen…”“You couldn’t understand

why one of their ownwouldbe giving us new leads andassociations?”

“Exactly,andsowelookedfurther.Afterawhileanotheroutfit cropped up in theconversations.”“Whichone?”“They call themselves

Hacker Republic. They havea big reputation out there. Abunchof talentsat the topoftheirgameandrigorousabouttheir encryptions. And forgood reason. We’reconstantly trying to infiltrate

these groups, and we’re notthe only ones.We don’t justwant tofindoutwhat they’reupto,wealsowanttorecruittheir people. These daysthere’s big competition forthesharpesthackers.”“Now that we’ve all

becomecriminals.”“Ha, yes, maybe.

Whatever, Hacker Republichas major talent. Lots of theguyswetalkedtobackedthat

up. And it wasn’t just that.Therewerealsorumoursthattheyhadsomethingbiggoingon,andthenahackerwiththehandleBobtheDog,whowethink is linked to the gang,was running searches andaskingquestionsaboutoneofour guys, Richard Fuller. Doyouknowhim?”“No.”“A manic-depressive self-

righteous prick who’s been

buggingme for awhile. Thearchetypal security risk, whogets arrogant and sloppywhen he’s in amanic phase.He’sjustthekindofpersonabunch of hackers should betargeting, and you’d needclassified information toknow that. Hismental-healthissuesaren’texactlycommonknowledge–hisownmotherhardlyknows.But I’mprettyconfidentthatintheendthey

didn’t get in via Fuller.We’ve examined every filehe’s received recently andthere’s nothing there. We’vescrutinized him from top tobottom. But I bet Fuller waspart of Hacker Republic’soriginal plan and then theychanged strategy. I can’tclaim to have any hardevidenceagainst them,notatall,butmygutfeelingisstill

thattheseguysarebehindthebreak-in.”“Yousaidthehackerwasa

girl.”“Right. Once we’d homed

inonthisgroupwefoundoutas much as possible aboutthem. It wasn’t easy toseparate rumour from mythfromfact.Butonethingcameup so often that in the end Isawnoreasontoquestionit.”“Andwhat’sthat?”

“Hacker Republic’s bigstar issomeonewhouses thealiasWasp.”“Wasp?”“I won’t bore you with

technicaldetails,butWasp issomething of a legend incertain circles, one of thereasons being her ability toturn accepted methods ontheir heads. Someone saidyou can sense Wasp’sinvolvement in a hacker

attack the samewayyoucanrecognize Mozart in amelodic loop. Wasp has herown unmistakable style andthatwasthefirstthingoneofmy guys said after he’dstudied the breach: this isdifferentfromanythingwe’vecome across; it’s got acompletely new threshold oforiginality.”“Agenius,inshort.”

“Without a doubt. So westarted to search everythingwe could find about thisWasp, to try to crack thehandle. No-one wasparticularly surprised whenthatdidn’twork.Thispersonwouldn’t leaveopenings.Butyou know what I did then?”Needhamsaidproudly.“Tellme.”“Ilookedupwhattheword

stoodfor.”

“Beyond its literalmeaning,youmean?”“Right,butnotbecauseIor

anyone else thought itwouldgetusanywhere.Like I said,if you can’t get there on themain road, you take the sideroads; you never know whatyou might find. It turns outWaspcouldmeanallsortsofthings. Wasp is a BritishfighterplanefromWorldWarTwo, a comedy by

Aristophanes, a famous shortfilm from 1915, a satiricalmagazine from nineteenth-century San Francisco andthere’s also of course WhiteAnglo-Saxon Protestant, plusa whole lot more. But thosereferences are all a little toosophisticated for a hackergenius;theydon’tgowiththeculture. But you know whatdid fit? The superhero inMarvelComics:Wasp isone

of the founding members oftheAvengers.”“Likethemovie?”“Exactly, with Thor, Iron

Man,CaptainAmerica.Intheoriginalcomicsshewaseventheirleaderforawhile.Ihaveto say, Wasp is a prettybadass superhero, kind ofrock and roll, a rebel whowears black and yellowwithinsect’swingsandshortblackhair. She’s got attitude, the

underdog who hits back andcan grow or shrink. All thesourceswe’vebeentalkingtothink that’s the Wasp we’relooking for. It doesn’tnecessarily mean the personbehind the handle is someMarvel Comics geek. Thathandlehasbeenaround forawhile, so maybe it’s achildhoodthingthatstuck,oran attempt at irony. Like thefactthatInamedmycatPeter

PaneventhoughIneverlikedthat self-righteous assholewhodoesn’twanttogrowup.Anyway…”“Anyway?”“I couldn’t help noticing

thatthiscriminalnetworkourWasp was looking into alsouses names from MarvelComics.Theysometimescallthemselves the SpiderSociety,right?”

“Yes,butIthinkthat’sjustagame,as I see it, thumbingtheirnosesatthoseofuswhomonitorthem.”“Sure, I get that, but even

jokes can give you leads, orcover up something serious.DoyouknowwhattheSpiderSocietyintheMarvelComicsdoes?”“No.”“They wage war against

the ‘Sisterhood of the

Wasp’.”“O.K., fine, it’s an

interesting detail, but I don’tunderstandhowthatcouldbeyourlead.”“Just wait.Will you come

downstairs with me to mycar? I have to head to theairportquitesoon.”

Itwasnotlate,butBlomkvistknew that he could not keep

goingmuchlonger.Hehadtogohomeandgetafewhours’sleep and then start workingagain tonight or tomorrowmorning. Itmight help too ifhe had a few beers on theway. The lack of sleep waspounding inhis foreheadandhe needed to chase away afew memories and fears.Perhaps he could get Zandertojoinhim.Helookedoverathiscolleague.

Zander had youth andenergy to spare. He wasbangingawayathiskeyboardas ifhehad juststartedworkfor the day, and every nowand then he flicked excitedlythroughhisnotes.Yethehadbeen in the office since 5.00in the morning. It was now5.45 in the evening and hehadhardlytakenabreak.“Whatdoyousay,Andrei?

Howaboutwegetabeerand

a bite to eat and discuss thestory?”At first Zander did not

seem to understand. Then heraised his head and suddenlyno longer looked quite soenergetic. He gave a littlegrimace as he massaged hisshoulder.“What…well…maybe,”

hesaidhesitantly.“I’ll take that as a yes,”

Blomkvist said. “How about

Folksoperan?”Folksoperanwasabarand

restaurantonHornsgatan,notfar away, which attractedjournalists and the artycrowd.“It’sjustthat…”“Justthatwhat?”“I’vegotthisportraittodo,

of an art dealer working atBukowski’s who got onto atrain at Malmö Central andwas never seen again. Erika

thought it would fit into themix,”Zandersaid.“Jesus, the things she

makesyoudo,thatwoman.”“Ihonestlydon’tmind.But

I’m having trouble pulling ittogether. It feels so messyandcontrived.”“Doyouwantmetohavea

lookatit?”“I’dlovethat,butletmedo

somemoreworkon it first. Iwould die of embarrassment

if you saw it in its presentstate.”“In that case deal with it

later. But come on now,Andrei, let’s go and at leastgetsomethingtoeat.Youcancome back and workafterwards if you must,”Blomkvist said. He lookedoveratZander.That memory would stay

with him for a long time.Zanderwaswearingabrown

checked jacket and a whiteshirtbuttonedupalltheway.He looked likea filmstar, atany rate even more like ayoungAntonioBanderasthanusual.“I thinkI’dbetterstayand

keeppluggingaway,”hesaid.“I have something in thefridge which I canmicrowave.”Blomkvist wondered if he

shouldpullrank,orderhimto

come out and have a beer.Insteadhesaid:“O.K.,we’llseeeachother

inthemorning.Howaretheydoing out there meanwhile?No drawing of the murdereryet?”“Seemsnot.”“We’llhavetofindanother

solution tomorrow. Takecare,”Blomkvistsaid,gettingup and putting on hisovercoat.

Salander rememberedsomethingshehadreadaboutsavants a long time ago inSciencemagazine. It was anarticle by Enrico Bombieri,an expert in number theory,referring to an episode inOliver Sacks’ TheManWhoMistookHisWifeforaHatinwhich a pair of autistic andmentallydisabledtwinsrecitestaggeringly high primenumbers to each other, as if

they could see them beforetheir eyes in some sort ofinner mathematicallandscape.Whatthesetwinswereable

todoandwhatSalandernowwanted to achieve were twodifferent things. But therewas still a similarity, shethought, and decided to try,however sceptical she mightbe. So she brought up theencryptedN.S.A.fileandher

program for elliptic-curvefactorization.Thensheturnedto August. He responded byrockingbackandforth.“Prime numbers. You like

primenumbers,”shesaid.Augustdidnotlookather,

orstophisrocking.“I like them too. And

there’s one thing I’mparticularly interested in justnow. It’s called factorization.Doyouknowwhatthatis?”

August stared at the tableas he continued rocking anddid not look as if heunderstoodanythingatall.“Prime-number

factorization is when werewrite a number as theproductofprimenumbers.ByproductinthiscontextImeanthe result of amultiplication.Doyoufollowme?”August’s expression did

not change, and Salander

wondered if she should justshutup.“According to the

fundamental principles ofarithmetic, every wholenumber has a unique prime-number factorization. It’sprettycool.Wecanproduceanumberassimpleas24inallsortsofways,forexamplebymultiplying12by2or3by8,or 4 by 6. Yet there’s onlyone way to factorize it with

prime-numbersandthat’s2x2x2x3.Areyouwithme?The problem is, even thoughit’s easy to multiply primenumbers to produce largenumbers, it’s oftenimpossible to go the otherway,fromtheanswerbacktothe prime numbers. A reallybad person has used this tocode a secret message. Doyouunderstand?It’sabitlike

mixingadrink:easytodobuthardertounmixagain.”August neither nodded nor

said a word. But at least hisbodywasnolongerrocking.“Shallweseeifyou’reany

good at prime-numberfactorization, August? Shallwe?”Augustdidnotbudge.“I’ll take that as a yes.

Shall we start with thenumber456?”

August’s eyes were brightbut distant, andSalander hadthe feeling that this idea ofhersreallywasabsurd.

It was cold and windy andthere were few people out.But Blomkvist thought thecoldwasdoinghimgood–hewas perking up a bit. Hethought of his daughterPernilla and what she said

about writing “for real”, andofSalanderofcourse,andtheboy. What were they doingrightnow?On the way up towards

Hornsgatspuckeln he staredfor a while at a paintinghanging in a gallery windowwhich showed cheerful,carefree people at a cocktailparty.At thatmoment it felt,perhapswrongly, as if it hadbeen ages since he had last

stood like that, drink inhandand without a care in theworld.Brieflyhelongedtobesomewherefaraway.Thenheshivered, suddenly struck bythe feeling thathewasbeingfollowed. Perhaps it was aconsequenceofeverythinghehad been through in the lastfew days. He turned round,but theonlypersonnearhimwasanenchantinglybeautifulwoman in a bright red coat

with flowing dark blondehair.Shesmiledathimalittleuncertainly. He gave her atentative smile back andwasabouttocontinueonhisway.Yethisgazelingered,asifhewereexpectingthewomantoturn at any moment intosomething more run-of-the-mill.Instead she became more

dazzling with each passingsecond,almostlikeroyalty,a

star who had accidentallywandered in among ordinarypeople, a gorgeous spread ina fashionmagazine. The factwas that right then, in thatfirstmomentofastonishment,Blomkvist would not havebeen able to describe her, orprovideevenonesingledetailaboutherappearance.“CanIhelpyou?”hesaid.“No, no,” she said,

apparentlyshy,andtherewas

no getting away from it: herhesitancywas beguiling. Shewasnot awomanyouwouldhave thought to be shy. Shelooked as if she might owntheworld.“Well then, have a nice

evening,”hesaid,and turnedagain, but he heard hernervouslyclearherthroat.“Aren’t you Mikael

Blomkvist?” she said, evenmore uncertain now, looking

down at the cobbles in thestreet.“Yes, I am,” he said, and

smiled politely, as he wouldhavedoneforanybody.“Well, I just want to say

that I’ve always admiredyou,” she said, raising herheadandgazingintohiseyeswithalonglook.“I’mflattered.Butit’sbeen

a long time since I wrote

anything decent. Who areyou?”“My name is Rebecka

Mattson,” she said. “I’vebeenlivinginSwitzerland.”“Andnowyou’rehomefor

avisit?”“Only for a short time,

unfortunately.ImissSweden.I even miss November inStockholm.ButIguessthat’show it is when you’rehomesick,isn’tit?”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“That you miss even the

badbits.”“True.”“Doyouknowhow I cure

it all? I follow the Swedishpress. I don’t think I’vemissed a single issue ofMillennium in the last fewyears,”shesaid.Helookedather again, and noticed thateverypieceofclothing, fromthe black high-heeled shoes

tothecheckedbluecashmereshawl, was expensive andelegant.Rebecka Mattson did not

look like your typicalMillennium reader. But therewas no reason to beprejudiced, even against richexpatriateSwedes.“Do you work there?” he

said.“I’mawidow.”“Isee.”

“SometimesIgetsobored.Were you goingsomewhere?”“Iwasthinkingofhavinga

drink and a bite to eat,” hesaid, at once regretting hisreply.Itwastooinviting, toopredictable.Butitwasatleasttrue.“May I keep you

company?”sheasked.“That would be nice,” he

said, sounding unsure. Then

she touched his hand –unintentionally,atleastthatiswhat he wanted to believe.She still seemed bashful.They walked slowly upHornsgatspuckeln,pastarowofgalleries.“How nice to be strolling

herewithyou,”shesaid.“It’sabitunexpected.”“So true. It’s not what I

wasthinkingwhenIwokeupthismorning.”

“Whatwereyouthinking?”“That thedaywouldbe as

drearyasever.”“I don’t know if I’ll be

suchgoodcompany,”hesaid.“I’m pretty much immersedinastory.”“Are you working too

hard?”“Maybeso.”“Then you need a little

break,”shesaid,givinghimabewitching smile, filled with

longing or some sort ofpromise. At that moment hethought she seemed familiar,as if he had seen that smilebefore, but in another form,distortedsomehow.“Havewemetbefore?”he

said.“I don’t think so. Except

thatI’veseenyouathousandtimes in pictures, and onT.V.”

“So you’ve never lived inStockholm?”“WhenIwasalittlegirl.”“Wheredidyoulivethen?”She pointed vaguely up

Hornsgatan.“Those were good times,”

she said. “Our father tookcareofus.Ioftenthinkabouthim.Imisshim.”“Ishenolongeralive?”“Hediedmuchtooyoung.”“I’msorry.”

“Thankyou.Whereareweheaded?”“Well,” he said, “there’s a

pub just up Bellmansgatan,theBishopsArms.Iknowtheowner. It’s quite a niceplace.”“I’msure…”Once again she had that

diffident, shy look on herface,andonceagainherhandhappenedtobrushagainsthis

fingers – this time hewasn’tsosureitwasaccidental.“Perhaps it isn’t fancy

enough?”“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine,”

she said apologetically. “It’sjust that people tend to stareat me. I’ve come across somanybastardsinpubs.”“Icanbelievethat.”“Wouldn’tyou…?”“What?”

She looked down at thegroundagainandblushed.Atfirsthethoughthewasseeingthings. Surely adults don’tblush like that? But RebeckaMattson from Switzerland,who looked like sevenmilliondollars,went red likealittleschoolgirl.“Wouldn’t you like to

invite me to your placeinstead,foraglassofwineor

two?” she said. “That wouldbenicer.”“Well…”Hehesitated.He badly needed to sleep,

to be in good shape fortomorrow.Yethesaid:“Of course. I’ve got a

bottle of Barolo in the winerack,” and for a second hethought something excitingmight be about to happenafter all, as if he were abouttoembarkonanadventure.

But his uncertainty wouldnot abate. At first he couldnot understand why. He didnot normally have a problemwith this kind of situation –he had more success thanmostwhenitcametowomenflirting with him. Thisparticular encounter haddeveloped very quickly, buthe was not unused to thateither. So it was something

about the woman herself,wasn’tit?Not only was she young

and exceptionally beautifuland should have had betterthings to do than chase afterburned-out, middle-agedjournalists. It was somethingin her expression, and in theway she switched betweenbold and shy, and thephysical contact. Everythinghe had at first found

spontaneous increasinglyseemedtohimtobeaffected.“How lovely, and I won’t

stay long. I don’t want tospoilyourstory,”shesaid.“I’lltakefullresponsibility

for any spoiled stories,” hesaid,andtriedtosmileback.Itwasaforcedsmileandin

that instant he caught astrange twitch in her eyes, asudden icy chill which in asecond turned into its very

opposite,fullofaffectionandwarmth, like an actingexercise. He became moreconvinced that there wassomethingwrong.Buthehadno idea what, and did notwant his suspicions to show,at least not yet. What wasgoing on? He wanted tounderstand.They continued on up

Bellmansgatan – not that hewas thinking of taking her

back to his place any longer,but he needed time to figureher out. He looked at heragain. She really wasgorgeous. Yet it occurred tohimthatitwasnotherbeautywhich had first captivatedhim. It was something else,somethingmore elusive. JustthenhesawRebeckaMattsonasariddle towhichheoughttohavetheanswer.

“Anicepartoftown,this,”shesaid.“It’s not bad.” He looked

uptowardstheBishopsArms.Diagonallyacrossfromthe

pub, just a bit higher up bythe crossroads withTavastgatan,ascrawny,lankyman in a black cap wasstanding under a streetlightstudyingamap.Atourist.Hehad a brown suitcase in hisother hand and white

sneakers and a black leatherjacket with its fur collarturned up, and under normalcircumstances Blomkvistwould not have given him asecondglance.But now he observed that

the man’s movements werenervous and unnatural.Perhaps Blomkvist wassuspicious to beginwith, butthe distracted way he washandling the map seemed

more and more contrived.Now he raised his head andstared straight at Blomkvistand the woman, studyingthemforabriefsecond.Thenhe looked down at his mapagain, seeming ill at ease,almost tryingtohidehisfaceunder the cap. The bowed,almost timid head remindedBlomkvist of something, andagain he looked into hiscompanion’sdarkeyes.

Hislookwaspersistentandintense. She gazed at himwithaffection,buthedidnotreciprocate; instead hescrutinized her. Then herexpressionfroze.OnlyinthatmomentdidBlomkvistsmile.He smiled because

suddenly the penny haddropped.

CHAPTER22

23.xi,Evening

Salander got up from thetable. She did not want to

pesterAugustanylonger.Theboy was under enoughpressure as it was and herideahadbeencrazyfromthestart.One always expects too

much of these poor savants,and what August had donewas already impressive. Shewent out onto the terraceagain and gingerly felt theareaaroundthebulletwound,which was still aching. She

heard a sound behind her, ahasty scratchingonpaper, soshe turned and went backinside. When she saw whatAugust had written, shesmiled:

She sat down and said,without looking at him thistime, “O.K.! I’m impressed.But let’s make this a little

harder. Have a go at18,206,927.”August was hunched over

the table and Salanderthought it might have beenunkindtothrowaneight-digitfigureathimrightaway.Butif they were to stand anychance of getting what sheneededtheywouldneedtogomuch higher than that. Shewas not surprised to seeAugust begin to sway

nervouslybackandforth.Butafterafewsecondsheleanedforward and wrote on hispaper:9419×1933.“Good. How about

971,230,541?”Augustwrote:983×991×

997.“That’s great,” Salander

said,andontheywent.

Outside the black, cube-likeofficebuildinginFortMeadewithitsreflectiveglasswalls,not far from the big radomewith its dish aerials, Casalesand Needham were standingin the packed car park.Needhamwastwirlinghiscarkeys and looking beyond theelectric fence in thedirectionofthesurroundingwoods.Heshould be on his way to theairport, he said, he was late

already. But Casales did notwanttolethimleave.Shehadherhandonhis shoulderandwasshakingherhead.“That’stwisted.”“It’soutthere,”hesaid.“So every one of the

handles we’ve picked up forpeopleintheSpiderSociety–Thanos, Enchantress, Zemo,Alkhema, Cyclone and therest – what they have in

common is that they’re all…”“Enemies of Wasp in the

original comic-book series,yes.”“That’sinsane.”“A psychologist would

havefunwithit.”“Thiskindoffixationmust

rundeep.”“I get the feeling it’s real

hatred,”hesaid.

“You will look afteryourself over there, won’tyou?”“Don’t forget I used to be

inagang.”“That’s a long time ago,

Ed,andmanykilosagotoo.”“It’s not a question of

weight. What is it they say?You can take the boy out oftheghetto…”“Yes,yes.”

“You can never get rid ofit. Besides, I’ll have helpfrom the N.D.R.E. inStockholm. They’re itchingas much as I am to put thathackeroutofactiononceandforall.”“What if Ingram finds

out?”“That wouldn’t be good.

But,asyoucanimagine,I’vebeen preparing the ground a

bit. Even exchanged a wordortwowithO’Connor.”“Ifiguredasmuch.Isthere

anythingIcandoforyou?”“Yep.”“Shoot.”“Ingram’s crew seems to

havehad full insight into theSwedish policeinvestigation.”“They’ve been

eavesdropping on thepolice?”

“Either thator theyhaveasource, maybe an ambitioussoul at Säpo. If I put youtogetherwith twoofmybesthackers, you could do somedigging.”“Soundsrisky.”“O.K.,forgetit.”“Thatwasn’tano.”“Thanks, Alona. I’ll send

info.”“Have a good trip,” she

said, as Needham smiled

defiantlyandgotintohiscar.

Looking back, Blomkvistcouldnotexplainhowhehadworked it out. It might havebeen something in theMattson woman’s face,something unknown and yetfamiliar.Theperfectharmonyof that face might havereminded him of its veryopposite, and that together

with other hunches andmisgivings gave him theanswer.True, hewasnotyetabsolutely sure of it. But hehad no doubt that somethingwasverywrong.The man now walking off

with his map and brownsuitcase was the very figurehe had seen on the securitycamera in Saltsjöbaden, andthat coincidence was tooimprobablenottobeofsome

significance, so Blomkviststoodthereforafewsecondsand thought. Then he turnedto the woman who calledherself RebeckaMattson andtriedtosoundconfident:“Your friend is heading

off.”“My friend?” she said,

genuinely surprised. “Whatfriend?”“Him up there,” he said,

pointingattheman’sskeletal

backashesaunteredgawkilydownTavastgatan.“Are you joking? I don’t

knowanyoneinStockholm.”“What do you want from

me?”“Ijustwanttogettoknow

you, Mikael,” she said,fingeringherblouse,asifshemightundoabutton.“Stop that!” he said

roughly, and was about tolose his temper when she

looked at him with suchvulnerable, piteous eyes thathewasthrown.Foramomenthe thought he had made amistake.“Are you cross with me?”

shesaid,hurt.“No,but…”“What?”“Idon’ttrustyou,”hesaid,

more bluntly than heintended.

She smiled sadly and said,“I can’t help feeling thatyou’re not quite yourselftoday,areyou,Mikael?We’llhavetomeetsomeothertimeinstead.”She moved to kiss his

cheek so discreetly andquicklythathehadnotimetostop her. She gave aflirtatiouswaveofherfingersand walked away up the hillon high heels, so resolutely

self-assuredthathewonderedifheshouldstopherandfiresome probing questions. Buthe could not imagine thatanything would come of it.Insteadhedecidedtotailher.Itwascrazy,buthesawno

alternative, so he let herdisappear over the brow ofthe hill and then set off inpursuit. He hurried up to thecrossroads, sure that shecould not have gone far.But

therewasnosignofher,orofthemaneither.Itwasasifthecity had swallowed them up.The street was empty, apartfromablackB.M.W.backinginto a parking space someway down the street, and amanwithagoateewearinganold-fashioned Afghan coatwho came walking in hisdirection on the oppositepavement.

Where had they gone?Therewerenosidestreetsforthem to slip into, no alleys.Had they ducked into adoorway? He walked ondown towards TorkelKnutssonsgatan, looking leftandright.Nothing.Hepassedwhat had been Samir’sCauldron, once a favouritelocalofhisandBerger’s;nowcalled Tabbouli, it servedLebanese food. They might

havesteppedinside.But he could not see how

she would have had time toget there;hehadbeenhotonherheels.Wherethehellwasshe? Were she and the manstanding somewhere nearby,watchinghim?Twicehespunaround,certainthattheywererightbehindhim,andoncehegaveastartbecauseofanicyfeeling that someone was

looking at him through atelescopicsight.When eventually he gave

upandwanderedhomeitfeltas though he had escaped agreatdanger.Hehadno ideahow close to the truth thatfeelingwas,yethisheartwasbeatingfiercelyandhisthroatwas dry. He was not easilyscared, but tonight he hadbeen badly frightened by anemptystreet.

The only thing he didunderstand was who heneededtospeakto.HehadtogetholdofHolgerPalmgren,Salander’s old guardian. Butfirst he would do his civicduty. If theman he had seenwasthepersonfromBalder’ssecurity camera, and therewas even a minimal chancethat he could be found, thepolicehadtobeinformed.SoherangBublanski.

It was not at all easy toconvince the chief inspector.It had not been easy toconvincehimself.Buthestillhad some residual credibilityto fall back on, howevermany liberties he had takenwith the truth of late.Bublanski said thathewouldsendoutaunit.“Whywouldhebeinyour

partoftown?”

“I have no idea, but itwouldn’t hurt to see if youcanfindhim,wouldit?”“Isupposenot.”“Thebestoflucktoyouin

thatcase.”“It’s damn unsatisfactory

thattheBalderboyisstilloutthere somewhere,” Bublanskisaidreproachfully.“And it’s damn

unsatisfactory that there was

a leak in your unit,”Blomkvistsaid.“We’ve identified our

leak.”“You have? That’s

fantastic.”“It’s not all that fantastic,

I’m afraid. We believe theremayhavebeen several leaks,most of which did minimaldamageexceptmaybeforthelast.”

“Thenyou’llhavetomakesureyouputastoptoit.”“We’re doing all we can,

but we’re beginning tosuspect …” And then hepaused.“What?”“Nothing.”“O.K., you don’t have to

tellme.”“We live in a sick world,

Mikael.”“Wedo?”

“A world in whichparanoiaisarequirement.”“You could be right about

that. Good night, ChiefInspector.”“Good night, Mikael.

Don’tdoanythingsillynow.”“I’lltrynotto.”

Blomkvist crossed overRingvägen and went downinto theTunnelbana.He took

theredlinetowardsNorsborgand got off at Liljeholmen,whereforaboutayearHolgerPalmgrenhadbeenlivinginasmall, modern apartment.Palmgren had soundedalarmed when he heardBlomkvist’s voice on thetelephone. But as soon as hehad been assured thatSalander was in one piece –Blomkvist hoped he wasn’t

wrong about this – he madehimfeelwelcome.Palmgren was a lawyer,

long retired, who had beenSalander’sguardianformanyyears,ever since thegirlwasthirteen and had been lockedup in St Stefan’s psychiatricclinic in Uppsala. He waselderlyandnot in thebestofhealth, having suffered twostrokes. For some time nowhe had been using a Zimmer

frame,andhadtroublegettingaroundevenso.The left sideof his face drooped and hisleft hand no longerfunctioned.Buthismindwasclear and his long-termmemory was outstanding –especiallyonSalander.No-one knew Lisbeth

Salanderashedid.Palmgrenhad succeeded where all thepsychiatrists andpsychologists had failed, or

perhaps had not wanted tosucceed. After a childhoodfrom hell, when the girl hadlost faith in all adults and inall authority, Palmgren hadwon her confidence andpersuaded her to open up.Blomkvist saw it as a minormiracle. Salander was everytherapist’snightmare,butshehad told Palmgren about themost painful parts of herchildhood. That was why

Blomkvist now keyed in thefront-door code atLiljeholmstorget 96, took thelift to thefifthfloorandrangthedoorbell.“My dear old friend,”

Holger said in the doorway,“it’ssowonderfultoseeyou.Butyou’relookingpale.”“I haven’t been sleeping

well.”“Not surprising, when

people are shooting at you. I

read about it in the paper.Adreadfulstory.”“Appalling.”“Have there been any

developments?”“I’ll tell you all about it,”

Blomkvist said, sitting on ayellow sofa with its back tothe balcony, waiting forPalmgren to settle withdifficulty into a wheelchairnexttohim.

Blomkvist ran through thestory in broad outline.Whenhe came to the point of hissudden inspiration, orsuspicion, on thecobblestones inBellmansgatan, he wasinterrupted:“Whatareyousaying?”“IthinkitwasCamilla.”Palmgren looked stunned.

“ThatCamilla?”“Theverysame.”

“Jesus,” Palmgren said.“Whathappened?”“She vanished. But

afterwards I felt as if mybrainwereonfire.”“I can well understand. I

was sure Camilla haddisappeared off the face oftheearth.”“And I had almost

forgotten that therewere twoofthem.”

“There were two of themalright, very much so: twinsisters who loathed eachother.”“I remember that,”

Blomkvist said. “But I needtoberemindedofasmuchasyou can tell me, to fill thegapsinthestoryasIknowit.I’ve been askingmyselfwhyon earth Salander gotinvolved in this story. Whywould she, the superhacker,

take an interest in a simpledatabreach?”“Well, you know the

background, don’t you? Themother,AgnetaSalander,wasa cashier at Konsum Zinkenand lived with her twindaughters on Lundagatan.Theymight have had quite anice life together. Therewasn’t much money andAgneta was very young andhadhadnoopportunitytoget

an education. But she wasloving and caring. Shewanted to give her girls agood upbringing. It was just…”“That the father came to

visit.”“Yes,thefather,Alexander

Zalachenko. He came fromtime to time and his visitsnearly always ended in thesame way. He assaulted andraped Agneta while the girls

sat in the next room andheard everything. One dayLisbeth found her motherunconsciousonthefloor.”“Andthatwasthefirsttime

shetookrevenge?”“Thesecondtime.Thefirst

was when she stabbedZalachenko several times intheshoulder.”“But now she firebombed

hiscar.”

“Yes. Zalachenko burnedlike a torch. Lisbeth wascommitted to St Stefan’spsychiatricclinic.”“And her mother was

admitted to Äppelvikennursinghome.”“For Lisbeth that was the

mostpainfulpartofthestory.Hermotherwas then twenty-nine, and she was neverherselfagain.Shesurvivedatthenursinghomeforfourteen

years, with severe braininjuries and suffering a greatdealofpain.Oftenshecouldnot communicate at all.Lisbeth went to see her asfrequentlyasshecould,andIknow she dreamed that hermother would one dayrecover so they could talkagain and look after eachother.But itneverhappened.Thatifanythingisthedarkestcorner of Lisbeth’s life. She

saw her mother wither awayandeventuallydie.”“It’s terrible. But I’ve

never understood Camilla’spartinthestory.”“That’s more complicated,

andinsomewaysIthinkonehas to forgive the girl. Afterall, she toowasonlya child,and before she was evenaware of it she became apawninthegame.”“Inwhatway?”

“They chose oppositecampsinthebattle,youcouldsay.It’struethatthegirlsarefraternal twins and not alikein appearance, but they alsohave completely differenttemperaments. Lisbeth wasborn first, Camilla twentyminutes later. She wasapparently a joy to behold,even when she was tiny.While Lisbeth was an angrycreature, Camilla had

everyone exclaiming, ‘Oh,what a sweet girl!’ and itcan’thavebeenacoincidencethatZalachenkoshowedmoreforbearancetowardsherfromthe start. I say forbearancebecause obviously it wasnever a question of anythingkinder in those first years.Since Agneta was no morethan a whore to him, itfollowed that her childrenwere bastards with no claim

on his affections, littlewretches who just got in theway.Andyet…”“Yes?”“Andyet evenZalachenko

noticed that one of thechildren was beautiful.SometimesLisbethwouldsaytherewas a genetic defect inher family and, even thoughit’s doubtful that her claimwould stand up to medicalscrutiny, it cannot be denied

that Zala fathered someexceptional children. Youcame across their half-brother, Ronald Niedermann,didn’t you? He was blonde,enormousandhadcongenitalanalgesia,theinabilitytofeelpain, so was therefore anideal hit man and murderer,whileCamilla…well,inhercase the genetic abnormalitywasquitesimplythatshewasastoundingly, ridiculously

lovelytolookat,andthatjustgotworseasshegrewolder.IsayworsebecauseI’mprettysure that itwasamisfortune.The effect may have beenexaggerated by the fact thather twinsisteralways lookedsour. Grown-ups were liableto frownwhen they saw her.But then they would noticeCamilla, and light up and gosoft in the head. Can you

imagine what an affect thatmusthavehadonher?”“Itmusthavebeentoughto

getpassedover.”“I wasn’t thinking of

Lisbeth, and I don’tremember seeing anyevidencethatsheresentedthesituation.Ifithadjustbeenaquestion of beauty, sheprobablywould have felt hersisterwaswelcometo it.No,I’m talking about Camilla.

Canyouimaginewhatitmustdo to a child who doesn’thave much in the way ofempathy to be told all thetimehowdivinesheis?”“Itgoestoherhead.”“It gives her a sense of

power.When she smiles, wemelt. When she doesn’t, wefeel excluded, and doabsolutelyanythingtoseeherbeam again. Camilla learnedearly on to exploit that. She

becameexpertatit,amistressof manipulation. She hadlarge,expressivedoeeyes.”“Shestilldoes.”“Lisbeth told me how

Camillawouldsitforhoursinfrontofthemirror,practisingher look. Her eyes were afantasticweapon.Theycouldboth bewitch you and freezeyou out, make children andadults alike feel special oneday and rejected the next. It

was an evil gift and, as youmightguess,shesoonbecamevery popular at school.Everyone wanted to be withherandshetookadvantageofit in every conceivable way.She made sure that herclassmates gave her smallpresents daily: marbles,sweets, small change, pearls,brooches. And those whodidn’t, or generally didn’tbehave as she wanted, she

wouldn’t even look at thenext day. Anyone who hadever found themselvesbaskinginherradianceknewhow painful that was. Herclassmates did everythingthey could to be in her goodgraces. They fawned overher. With one exception, ofcourse.”“Hersister.”“That’s right, and so

Camilla turned them against

Lisbeth. She got some fiercebullyinggoing– theypushedLisbeth’s head into the toiletand called her a freak and aweirdoandallsortsofnames.This went on until one daytheyfoundoutwhotheywerepickingon.Butthat’sanotherstory,andoneyou’refamiliarwith.”“Lisbeth doesn’t turn the

othercheek.”

“No indeed. But theinteresting thing in this storyfromapsychologicalpointofview is that Camilla learnedhow to dominate andmanipulate her surroundingsfrom an early age. Sheworked out how to controleverybody, apart from twosignificant people in her life,Lisbeth and her father, andthat exasperated her. She puta vast amount of energy into

winning those fights aswell,and she needed totallydifferentstrategiesforeachofthem. She could never winLisbethover,andprettysoonI think she gave up. In hereyes, Lisbeth was simplystrange, just a surly, stroppygirl. Her father, on the otherhand…”“He was evil through and

through.”

“He was evil, but he wasalso the family’s centre ofgravity. He was the onearound whom everythingrevolved, even if he wasrarely there. He was theabsent father. In a normalfamilysucha figurecan takeonaquasi-mysticalstatusforachild,butinthiscaseitwasmuchmorethanthat.”“Inwhatway?”

“I suppose I mean thatCamillaandZalachenkowerean unfortunate combination.Although Camilla hardlyunderstooditherself,shewasonly interested in one thing,even then: power. And herfather, well, you can saymany things about him, buthe was not short of power.Plentyofpeoplecantestifytothat, not least that wretchedlot at Säpo. No matter how

firmly they tried to put theirfootdown,theystillendeduphuddled like a flock offrightened sheep when theycame eyeball to eyeball withhim. There was an ugly,imposing self-assuranceabout Zalachenkowhichwasmerely amplified by the factthat he was untouchable. Itmade no difference howmany times he was reportedtothesocialwelfareagency–

the Security Police alwaysprotected him. This is whatpersuaded Lisbeth to takematters into her own hands.But for Camilla, things werecompletelydifferent.”“She wanted to be like

him.”“Yes,Ithinkso.Herfather

was her ideal – she wantedthe same aura of immunityandstrength.Butmostofall,perhaps, she wanted to be

acknowledgedbyhim.Tobeseenasaworthydaughter.”“She must have known

howterriblyhemistreatedhermother.”“Of course she knew. Yet

stillshetookherfather’sside.One could say she chose tosidewithstrengthandpower.Apparently even as a littlegirl she often said that shedespisedweakpeople.”

“She despised her mothertoo,doyouthink?”“Unfortunately I think

you’re right. Lisbeth oncetoldmesomethingwhichI’veneverbeenabletoforget.”“What’sthat?”“I’venevertoldanyone.”“Isn’titabouttimethen?”“Well, maybe, but in that

case I need a strong drink.Howaboutagoodbrandy?”

“That wouldn’t be such abad idea. But you stay rightwhere you are, I’ll get someglasses and the bottle,”Blomkvist said, going to themahogany drinks cabinet inthe corner by the kitchendoor.He was digging around

among the bottles when hisiPhone rang. It was Zander,or at least his name was onthe display. But when

Blomkvist answered no-onewasthere;itmusthavebeenapocket call, he thought. Hepoured out two glasses ofRémy Martin and sat downagainnexttoPalmgren.“Sotellme,”hesaid.“Idon’treallyknowwhere

to begin. But one finesummer’s day, as Iunderstood it, Camilla andLisbeth were both sitting in

their bedroom.Thedoorwaslocked.”

CHAPTER23

23.xi,Evening

August’s body stiffenedagain. He could no longer

find the answers. Thenumbers were too big andinstead of picking up hispencilheclenchedhisfistssothat the backs of his handswhitened.Hebangedhisheadagainstthetabletop.Salander should have tried

to comfort him, or at leastprevent him from hurtinghimself. But she was notentirely conscious of whatwashappening.Hermindwas

on her encrypted file. Sherealizedshewasnotgoingtoget any further by this routeeither. It was hardlysurprising – how couldAugust succeed wheresupercomputers had failed?Her expectations had beenabsurdly high from the startand what he had achievedwas impressive enough. Butstillshefeltdisappointed.

She went out into thedarknesstosurveythebarren,untamed landscape aroundher. Below the steep rockslope lay the beach and asnow-covered field with adeserteddancepavilion.On a lovely summer’s day

the place was probablyteemingwith people. Now itwas empty. The boats hadbeen pulled up on land andthere was not a sign of life;

no lightswere shining in thehouses on the other side ofthe water. Salander liked it.At least she liked it as ahiding place at the end ofNovember.If someone arrived by car

she was unlikely to pick upthe sound of the engine. Theonly possible place to parkwas down by the beach, andtogettothehouseyouhadtoclimb up the wooden steps

over the steep rock slope.Under the cover of darkness,someone might be able tosneak up on them. But shewould sleep tonight. Sheneeded it. Her wound wasstill givingherpain–maybethatwaswhyshehadgotherhopes up about August,against the odds. But whenshewentbackintothehouse,she realized that there wassomethingelsebesides.

“Normally Lisbeth isn’tsomeone who bothers aboutthe weather or what’s goingon beyond her immediatefocus,” Palmgren said. “Sheblocks out everything sheconsiders unimportant. Buton this occasion she didmention that the sun wasshiningonLundagatanandinSkinnarviksparken.Shecouldhear children laughing. Onthe other side of the

windowpane people werehappy – perhaps that waswhat she was trying to say.She wanted to point out thecontrast. Ordinary peoplewere having ice cream andplaying with kites and balls.Camilla and Lisbeth satlocked in their bedroom andcould hear their fatherassaulting their mother. Ibelieve this was just beforeLisbeth took her revenge on

Zalachenko, but I’mnot sureaboutthesequenceofevents.There were many rapes, andthey followed the samepattern.Zalawouldappearintheafternoonorevening,verydrunk. Sometimes he wouldruffle Camilla’s hair and saythings like, ‘How can such apretty girl have such aloathsome sister?’ Then hewouldlockhisdaughtersintotheirroomandsettledownin

the kitchen to have more todrink. He drank his vodkaneat, and often he would sitquietly at first, smacking hislips like a hungry animal.Then he would mumblesomething like, ‘And how’smy little whore today?’ –sounding almost affectionate.But Agneta would dosomething wrong, or ratherZalachenkowoulddecidethatshe had done something

wrong,andthenthefirstblowcame,usuallyaslapfollowedby,‘Ithoughtmylittlewhorewas going to behave herselftoday.’Thenhewould shoveherintothebedroomandbeather.Afterawhileslapswouldturn to punches. Lisbethcould tell from the sounds.She could tell exactly whatsort of blows theywere, andevenwhere they landed. Shefelt it as clearly as if she

herselfwerethevictimofthissavagery. After the punchescame the kicks. Zala kickedand shoved her motheragainst the wall and shouted‘bitch’ and ‘tramp’ and‘whore’, and that arousedhim.Hewasturnedonbyhersuffering.OnlywhenAgnetawas black and blue andbleedingdidherapeher,andwhen he climaxed he wouldyellevenfouler insults.Then

itwouldbequietforawhile.All that could be heard wasAgneta’schokedsobbingandZala’s own heavy breathing.Then he would get up andhaveanotherdrinkandmutterand swear and spit on thefloor.Sometimesheunlockedthe door to the children’sroom,andsaysomethinglike,‘Mummy’s behaving herselfagain now.’ And he wouldleave, slamming the door

behind him. That was theusual pattern. But on thisparticulardaysomethingnewhappened.”“What?’“The girls’ bedroom was

quite small. However hardthey tried to get away fromeachother,thebedswerestillclose and, while the abusewenton,eachoneusuallysaton her own mattress, facingthe other. They hardly ever

said anything, and usuallyavoided eye contact. On thisday Lisbeth was staringthrough the window atLundagatan– that’sprobablywhy she talked about thesunlight and the children outthere.But then she looked athersister,andthat’swhenshesawit.”“Shesawwhat?”“Camilla’s right hand,

beating against her mattress.

It could have been a sign ofnervous or compulsivebehaviour. That’s whatLisbeth thought at first. Butthenshenoticedthatthehandwas beating in time to theblowsfromthebedroom,andat that she looked up atCamilla’s face. Her sister’seyes were glowing withexcitement, and the eeriestthing was: Camilla lookedjustlikeZalahimselfandshe

was smiling. She wassuppressing a smirk, and inthat instant Lisbeth realizedthat Camilla was not onlytrying to ingratiate herselfwithher father.Shewasalsorightbehindhisviolence.Shewascheeringhimon.”“That’ssick.”“Butthat’showitwas.Do

you know what Lisbeth did?She remainedperfectly calm.ShesatdownnexttoCamilla

and took her hand almosttenderly. Perhaps Camillathoughthersisterwaslookingfor some comfort orcloseness. Stranger thingshavehappened.ThenLisbethrolled up her sister’s shirtsleeveanddugherfingernailsinto Camilla’s wrist – downtothebone–gougingopenaterrible wound. Bloodstreamed onto the bed.Lisbeth dragged Camilla to

thefloorandsworeshewouldkillbothherandherfather ifthebeatingsandtherapesdidnotstop.”“Jesus!”“You can imagine the

hatred between the sisters.Both Agneta and the socialservicesweresoworried thatsomething evenmore seriouswould happen that theywerekept apart. For a while theyarranged a home elsewhere

for Camilla. But sooner orlatertheywouldhaveclashedagain. In the end, as youknow,thingsdidnot turnoutlike that. I believe the sistersonly saw each other onceafterLisbethwaslockedup–several years later, when adisasterwasnarrowlyaverted– but I know none of thedetails. I haven’t heardanything of Camilla for along time now. The last

people to have had contactwithherarethefosterfamilywith whom she lived inUppsala, people calledDahlgren. I can get you thenumber. But ever sinceCamilla was eighteen ornineteen and she packed abag and left the country shehasn’t been heard from.That’s why I was astonishedwhen you said that you hadmet her. Not even Lisbeth,

with her famous ability totrack people down, has beenabletofindher.”“Soshehastried?”“Ohyes.AsfarasIknow,

the last time was when herfather’s estate was to beapportioned.”“Ihadnoidea.”“Lisbeth mentioned it in

passing. She didn’t want asinglepennyfromthatwill–to her it was bloodmoney –

but she could tell that therewas something strange aboutit. There were assets of fourmillion kronor: the farm inGosseberga, some securitiesand also a run-downindustrial site in Norrtälje, acottage somewhere, andvariousotherbits andpieces.Not insignificant by anymeans,andyet…”“He should have been

worthmuchmore.”

“Yes, Lisbeth was awarethat he ran a vast criminalempire. Four million wouldhave been small change inthatcontext.”“So you’re saying that she

may have wondered ifCamilla inherited the lion’sshare.”“I think that’s what she’s

been trying to find out. Themerethoughtthatherfather’sfortune was going on to do

harm after his death wastorture to her. But she gotnowhere.”“Camilla had obviously

concealed her new identitywell.”“Iassumeso.”“Do you have any reason

to think Camilla might havetaken over her father’straffickingbusiness?”“Maybe, maybe not. She

may have struck out into

something altogetherdifferent.”“Suchas?”Palmgren closed his eyes

and took a long sip of hisbrandy.“I can’t be sure of this,

Mikael. But when you toldme about Professor Balder, Ihad a thought. Do you haveany idea why Lisbeth is sogood with computers? Doyouknowhowitallstarted?”

“Ihavenoidea.”“Then I’ll tell you. I

wonder if the key to yourstorydoesn’tliethere.”

WhenSalandercameinfromthe terrace and saw Augusthuddled in a stiff andunnatural position by theround table, she realized thatthe boy reminded her ofherselfasachild.

That is exactly how shehad felt at Lundagatan, untilonedayitbecamecleartoherthat she had to grow up fartoo soon, to take revenge onherfather.Itwasaburdennochildshouldhavetobear.Butit had at least been thebeginning of a real life, amore dignified life. Nobastard should be allowed todowhatZalachenkohaddonewith impunity. She went to

Augustandsaidsolemnly,asif giving an important order,“You’re going to go to bednow. When you wake up Iwant you to do the drawingthat will nail your father’skiller.Doyouget that?”Theboynoddedandshuffledintohis bedroom while Salanderopenedherlaptopandstartedto lookfor informationaboutLasseWestmanandhiscircleoffriends.

“I don’t think Zalachenkohimself was much use withcomputers,” Palmgren said.“Hewasn’tofthatgeneration.Butperhapshisdirtybusinessgrew to such a scale that hehad to use a computerprogramtokeephisaccounts,and to keep themaway fromhis accomplices. One day hecame to Lundagatan with anI.B.M. machine which heinstalled on the desk next to

the window. Nobody in thefamily had seen a computerbefore. Zalachenko promisedthat if anyone so much astouched the machine hewouldflaythemalive.ForallIknowthatwastelling,froma purely psychological pointof view. It increased thetemptation.”“Forbiddenfruit.”“Lisbeth was around

eleven at the time. It was

beforeshetoreintoCamilla’sright arm, and before shewent for her father withknivesandpetrolbombs.Youcould say it was just beforeshe became the Lisbeth weknow today. She lackedstimulation. She had nofriends to speak of, partlybecause Camilla had madesure that nobody cameanywhere near her at school,but partly because she really

wasdifferent.Idon’tknowifsherealizeditherselfyet.Herteachersandthosearoundherdidn’t. But she was anextremely gifted child. Hertalent alone set her apart.Schoolwasdeadlyboringforher. Everything was obviousandeasy.Sheneededonlytotakeaquicklookat thingstounderstand them, and duringlessons she sat theredaydreaming. I do believe,

however,thatbythenshehadmanaged to find some thingsin her free time whichinterested her – advancedmaths books, that sort ofthing. But basically she wasboredstiff.Shespentalotoftime reading her Marvelcomics, which were waybelow her intellectual levelbutpossiblyfulfilledanother,therapeuticfunction.”“Inwhatsense?”

“TobehonestI’mreluctantto try toplay the shrinkwithLisbeth. Shewould hate it ifshecouldhearme.But thosecomicsarefullofsuperheroesfightingagainstsupervillains,takingmatters into their ownhands to exact revenge andsee to it that justice is done.ForallIknow,thatmayhavebeen the perfect sort ofreading material. Perhapsthosestories,withtheirblack-

and-white viewof theworld,helped her to gain someclarity.”“You mean that she

understood she had to growup and become a superheroherself.”“In some way, maybe, in

her own little world. At thetime she didn’t know thatZalachenkohadbeenaSovietspy, and that his secrets hadgiven him a unique position

in Swedish society. She canhave had no idea either thatthere was a special sectionwithin Säpo which protectedhim. But like Camilla shesensed that her father hadsome sort of immunity. Onedayamaninagreyovercoatappearedattheapartmentandhinted that their father mustcome to no harm. Lisbethrealized early on that therewas no point in reporting

Zalachenko to the police orthe social services. Thatwould only result in yetanother man in a greyovercoat turning up on theirdoorstep.“Powerlessness, Mikael,

can be a devastating force,and before Lisbeth was oldenough to do somethingaboutitsheneededaplaceofstrength, a refuge. She foundthat in the world of

superheroes. I know betterthan most how importantliteraturecanbe,whether it’scomic books or fine oldnovels, and I know thatLisbeth grew particularlyattached to a young heroinecalledJanetvanDyne.”“VanDyne?”“That’s right, a girlwhose

father was a rich scientist.The father is murdered – byaliens, if I remember right –

and in order to take herrevenge Janet van Dyne getsin touch with one of herfather’soldcolleagues,andinhis laboratory acquiressuperpowers. She becomestheWasp,someoneyoucan’tpush around, either literallyorfiguratively.”“I didn’t know that. So

that’s where she gets herhandlefrom?”

“Not just the handle. Iknew nothing about all thatsort of stuff, obviously – Iwas anolddinosaurwhogotthe Phantom mixed up withMandraketheMagician–butthe first time I saw a pictureof the Wasp, it gave me astart. There was so much ofLisbeth in her. There still is,in a way. I think she pickedupalotofherstylefromthatcharacter. I don’t want to

maketoomuchofit,butIdoknowshethoughtagreatdealabout the transformationJanet van Dyne underwentwhen she became the Wasp.Somehowsheunderstoodthatsheherselfhadtoundergothesame drastic metamorphosis:from child and victim tosomeone who could fightback against a highly trainedand ruthless intelligenceagent.

“Thoughts like theseoccupied her day and nightand so the Wasp became animportant figure for herduring her period oftransition, a source ofinspiration. And Camillafound out about it. That girlhad an uncanny ability tonose out other people’sweaknesses – she used hertentacles to feel for theirsensitive points and would

then strike exactly there. Soshe came tomake fun of theWasp in whichever way shecould. She even found outwho her Marvel enemieswereandbegantocallherselfby their names, Thanos andalltheothers.”“Did you say Thanos?”

Blomkvist said, suddenlyalert.“Ithinkthat’swhathewas

called, a destroyer who once

fell in lovewithDeath itself.Deathhadappearedtohiminthe shape of a woman, andafter that hewanted toprovehimself worthy of her, orsomething like that. Camillabecame a fan of his so as toprovoke Lisbeth. She evencalledhergangoffriendstheSpiderSociety–inoneofthecomics that group are thesworn enemies of theSisterhoodoftheWasp.”

“Really?” Blomkvist said,hismindracing.“Yes, I suppose it was

childish,butthatdidn’tmakeit innocent. There was suchhostility between the sisterseven then that those namestookonanastysignificance.”“Do you think that’s still

relevant?”“Thenames,youmean?”“Isupposeso.”

Blomkvist was not surewhat hemeant, but he had avague feeling that he had lituponsomethingimportant.“I don’t know,” Palmgren

said. “They’regrownwomennow, but we mustn’t forgetthatthoseweredecisivetimesin their lives, wheneverything changed. Lookingback, it’s perfectly possiblethat small details could turnout to be of fateful

significance. It wasn’t justthatLisbethlostamotherandwasthenlockedup.Camilla’sexistencetoowassmashedtopieces. She lost her home,and the father she admiredsufferedsevereburns.Asyouknow, after the petrol bombZalachenko was neverhimself again. Camilla wasput in a foster home milesfrom the world whoseundisputed leading light she

had been. It must have beenbitterly hurtful for her too. Idon’t for one second doubtthat she’s hated Lisbethwithamurderousfuryeversince.”“It certainly looks like it,”

Blomkvistsaid.Palmgren took another sip

of brandy. “The sisters werealready effectively in a stateof out-and-out war, andsomehow I think they bothknew that everything was

about to blow up to changetheir lives for ever. I thinktheywere even preparing forit.”“Butindifferentways.”“Oh yes. Lisbeth had a

brilliant mind, and infernalplans and strategies wereconstantlytickingawayinherhead. But she was alone.Camillawasnotsobright,notin the conventional sense –she never had a head for

studies,andwas incapableofunderstanding abstractreasoning – but she knewhow to manipulate people todo her bidding, so, unlikeLisbeth,shewasneveralone.If Camilla ever discoveredthat Lisbeth was good atsomething which could be athreat to her, she never triedto acquire the same skill, forthe simple reason she knew

she couldn’t compete withhersister.”“So what did she do

instead?”“Instead she would track

down somebody – or betterstill more than one person –who could do whatever itwas, and strike back withtheir help. She always hadminions.Butforgiveme,I’mgettingaheadofmyself.”

“Yes, tell me whathappened with Zalachenko’scomputer?”“Lisbeth was short of

stimulation,asIsaid.Andshewould lie awake at night,worrying about her mother.Agneta bled badly after therapes, but wouldn’t go to adoctor. She probably feltashamed. Periodically shesank into deep depressionsand no longer had the

strengthtogotoworkorlookafter the girls. Camilladespised her even more.‘Mammaisweak,’she’dsay.AsItoldyou,inherworld,tobe weak was worse thananythingelse.Lisbeth,ontheotherhand, sawaperson sheloved – the only person shehadeverloved–fallvictimtoa dreadful injustice. Shewasachild in somanyways,butshe was also becoming

convinced that she was theonlypersonintheworldwhocould save her mother frombeingbeatentodeath.Soshegot up in the middle of onenight – carefully, of course,so as not to wake Camilla –and saw the computeron thedesk by the windowoverlookingLundagatan.“At that time she didn’t

evenknowhow to switchonacomputer.Butsheworkedit

out.Thecomputer seemed tobewhisperingtoher:‘Unlockmy secrets.’ She didn’t getfar, not at first. A passwordwas needed. Since her fatherwasknownasZala, she triedthat,andZala666andsimilarcombinations,andeverythingelse she could think of. Butnothingworked.Ibelievethiswent on for two or threenights, and if she slept at all

then it was at school or athomeintheafternoon.“Then one night she

remembered something herfatherhadwritten inGermanon a piece of paper in thekitchen – Was mich nichtumbringt, macht michstärker.Whatdoesn’tkillmemakes me stronger. At thetime itmeant nothing to her.But she realized that thephrase was important to her

father,soshetriedit.Butthatdidn’t work either. Thereweretoomanyletters.SoshetriedNietzsche, theauthorofthequote, and there shewas,suddenlyshewasin.Awholeworldopeneduptoher.Latershe would describe it as amoment which changed herforever.Shethrivedoncesheovercame that barrier. Sheexplored what was intendedtostayhidden.”

“And Zalachenko neverknewofthis?”“It seems not, and she

understoodnothingat first. Itwas all in Russian. Therewere various lists, and somenumbers – accounts of therevenues from his traffickingoperations.TothisdayIhaveno idea how much sheworked out then and howmuchshefoundoutlater.Shecame to understand that her

motherwas not the only onemade to suffer by her father.He was destroying otherwomen’s lives too, and thatmadeherwildwithrage.Thatis what turned her into theLisbeth we know today, theonewhohatesmenwho…”“…hatewomen.”“Precisely. But it also

made her stronger. She sawthattherewasnoturningback– she had to stop her father.

She went on with hersearches on other computers,including at school, whereshe would sneak into thestaffroom,andsometimesshepretendedtobesleepingoverwith the friends she didn’thavewhile in fact shestayedovernightatschoolandsatatthe computers untilmorning.She started to learneverythingabouthackingandprogramming, and I imagine

that itwas the sameaswhenotherchildprodigiesdiscovertheirniche–shewasinthrall.Shefeltthatshewasbornforthis.Manyof her contacts inthe digital world began totake an interest in her eventhen, the way the oldergeneration has alwaysengagedwithyoungertalents,whether to encourage orcrush them.Manypeopleoutthere were irritated by her

unorthodox ways, hercompletely new approach.But others were impressed,and she made friends,includingPlague–youknowabout him. She got her firstreal friends by way of thecomputer and above all, forthe first time in her life, shefelt free. She could flythrough cyberspace, just liketheWasp.Therewasnothingtotieherdown.”

“Did Camilla realize howaccomplished she’dbecome?”“She certainly had her

suspicions. I don’t know, Ireallydon’twanttospeculate,but sometimes I think ofCamilla as Lisbeth’s darkside,hershadowfigure.”“Theeviltwin.”“Abit, though I don’t like

tocallpeopleevil, especiallynot young women. If you

want to dig into it yourself IsuggestyougetintouchwithMargareta Dahlgren,Camilla’s foster mother afterthe havoc at Lundagatan.MargaretalivesinStockholmnow,inSolna,Ithink.She’sawidow and has had adesperatelysadlife.”“Inwhatway?”“Well, thatmayalsobeof

interest.HerhusbandKjell,acomputer programmer at

Ericsson, hanged himself ashorttimebeforeCamillaleftthem. A year later theirnineteen-year-old daughteralso committed suicide byjumpingfromaFinlandferry– at least that’s what theinquest concluded. The girlhademotionalproblems–shestruggledwithherself-esteem– but Margareta neverbelievedthatversion,andsheevenhiredaprivatedetective.

Margareta is obsessed byCamilla,andtobehonestI’vealwayshadabitofaproblemwith her, I’m embarrassed tosay. Margareta got in touchwith me straight after youpublished your Zalachenkostory. As you know that’swhen I had just beendischarged from therehabilitation clinic. I wasmentallyandphysicallyattheend of my tether and

Margareta talked endlessly.Shewasfixated.Thesightofher number onmy telephonedisplay would exhaust me,andIwent tosomeefforts toavoid her. But now when IthinkaboutitIunderstandhermore. I think she would behappytotalktoyou,Mikael.”“Can you let me have her

details?”“I’llget themforyou.Just

wait a moment.” When

Palmgren came backmoments later he said, “Soyou’re sure that Lisbeth andthe boy are safely tuckedawaysomewhere?”“I’msure,”Blomkvistsaid.

At least I hope I am, hethought. He stood up andembracedPalmgren.Out on Liljeholmstorget

thestormtoreintohimagain.He pulled his coat closearound him and thought of

Salander and her sister, andfor some reason also ofAndreiZander.He decided to call him to

find out how he was gettingon with his story on the artdealer. But Zander neverpickedup.

CHAPTER24

23.xi,Evening

Zander had called Blomkvistbecause he had changed his

mind.Ofcoursehewantedtogooutforabeer.Howcouldhenot have takenhimuponthe offer? Blomkvistwas hisidol and the very reason hehad gone in for journalism.But once he dialled thenumber he felt embarrassedand hung up. MaybeBlomkvist had foundsomething better to do.Zanderdidnotlikedisturbing

people unnecessarily, andleastofallBlomkvist.Instead heworked on.But

howeverhardhetried,hegotnowhere. The words justwouldnotcomeoutrightandafter about an hour hedecidedtotakeawalk,andsohe tidied his desk andchecked once again that hehaddeletedeverywordontheencrypted link. Then he saidgoodbyetoEmilGrandén,the

only other person left in theoffice.Grandénwasthirty-sixand

had worked at both T.V.4’s“Cold Facts” and SvenskaMorgon-Posten. Last year hehad been awarded the StoraJournalist prize forInvestigative Reporter of theYear. But Zander thought –even thoughhe triednot to–that Grandén was conceitedand overbearing, at least

towards a young temp likehim.“Going out for a bit,”

Zandersaid.Grandén looked at him as

iftherewassomethinghehadforgotten to say. Then heuttered in a bored tone,“O.K.”Zander felt miserable. It

may only have beenGrandén’s arrogant attitude,but it was more likely

because of the article aboutthe art dealer. Why was hefinding it so difficult?Presumably because all hewanted to do was helpBlomkvist with the Balderstory. Everything else feltsecondary. But he was alsospineless, wasn’t he? WhyhadhenotletBlomkvisttakealookatwhathehadwritten?No-one could raise the

level of a story like

Blomkvist could, with just afew light pen strokes ordeletions. Never mind.Tomorrow he would see thestorywithfresheyesandthenBlomkvist could read it,however bad it might be.Zanderclosedthedoortotheoffice and walked outtowardsthelift.Furtherdownthe stairs a drama wasunfolding. At first he couldnotmakeoutwhatwasgoing

on, but therewas a scrawny,hollow-eyed figuremolestinga beautiful young woman.Zanderfroze–hehadalwaysloathed violence, ever sincehisparentshadbeenkilledinSarajevo.Hehatedfights.Buthis self-respect was at stake.Itwasone thing to runawayfor your own sake, but quiteanother to leave a fellowhuman being in danger, and

so he rushed down the stairsyelling,“Stop,lethergo!”At first that seemed like a

fatal mistake – the hollow-eyed man pulled out a knifeand muttered some threat inEnglish.Zander’s legsnearlygaveway,yethemanagedtomuster the last remnants ofhis courage and spat back,like something from a B-movie,“Hey,get lost! Ifyoudon’t, you’ll regret it.” After

a few seconds of posturing,themantookoffwithhistailbetweenhis legs.Zanderandthewomanwereleftaloneinthestairwell,andthattoowaslikeascenefromafilm.At first the woman was

shakenandshy.ShespokesosoftlythatZanderhadtoleaninclosetohearwhatshewassaying, and it took a whilebefore he understood whathad happened. The woman

hadbeenlivinginamarriagefromhell, she said, andeventhoughshewasnowdivorcedand living with a protectedidentity her ex-husband hadmanaged to track her downand send some stooge toharassher.“That’s the second time

that foul man has thrownhimself at me today,” shesaid.“Whywereyouuphere?”

“Itriedtogetawayandranin, but it didn’t help. I can’tthankyouenough.”“Itwasnothing.”“I’m so fed up with nasty

men,”shesaid.“I’maniceman,”he said,

perhaps a little too quickly,and that made him feelpathetic. He was not in theleast bit surprised that thewoman did not answer but

looked down at the stairs inembarrassment.He felt ashamed of such a

cheapreply.But then, justashe thought he had beenrejected, she raised her headandgavehimacarefulsmile.“I think you really might

be.Myname’sLinda.”“I’mAndrei.”“Nicetomeetyou,Andrei,

andthankyouagain.”“Thankyoutoo.”

“Whatfor?”“For…”He didn’t finish his

sentence. He could feel hisheart beating, hismouthwasdry. He looked down thestaircase.“Yes,Andrei?”shesaid.“Would you like me to

walkyouhome?”He regretted saying that

too.

Hewas afraid it would bemisinterpreted. But insteadshe gave him another of herenchanting, hesitant smiles,and said that she would feelsafewithhimbyherside,sothey went out into the streetand down towards Slussen.She told him how she hadbeen living more or lesslocked up in a big house inDjursholm. He said that heunderstood–hehadwrittena

series of articles on violenceagainstwomen.“Areyouajournalist?”she

said.“IworkatMillennium.”“Wow,” she said. “Is that

for real? I’m a huge fan ofthatmagazine.”“It’s done a lot of good

things,”hesaidshyly.“Itreallyhas,”shesaid.“A

whileago I readawonderfularticleaboutanIraqiwhohad

beenwoundedinthewarandgot sacked from his job as acleaner at some restaurant inthe city. He was leftcompletely destitute. Todayhe’s the owner of a wholechain of restaurants. I criedwhen I read it; it was sobeautifully written andinspiring.”“I wrote that piece,” he

said.

“Areyoujoking?”shesaid.“Itwasfantastic.”Zander was not exactly

spoiled when it came topraise for his journalisticefforts, especially fromunknown women. WheneverMillennium was mentioned,people wanted to talk aboutMikael Blomkvist, andZanderdidnotobject to that.But secretly he dreamed ofrecognition for himself too,

and now this beautiful Lindahadpraisedhimwithoutevenmeaningto.Itmade him so happy and

proud that he plucked up thecourage to suggest adrinkatPapagallo, since they werejust passing. To his delightshesaid,“Whatagoodidea!”so they went into therestaurant, Zander’s heartpounding. He tried to avoidlookingintohereyes.

Those eyes had knockedhimoffhis feetandhecouldnot believe this was reallyhappening. They sat down ata table not far from the barandLinda tentatively put outher hand. As he took it hesmiled and mumbledsomething, hardly aware ofwhathewassaying.He looked down at his

mobile – Grandén wascalling. To his own surprise

he ignored it and turned offhis ringer. For once themagazinewouldhavetowait.He just wanted to gaze intoLinda’s face, to drown in it.She was so beautiful that itfelt like a punch to thestomach, yet she seemed sofragile,likeawoundedbird.“I can’t imagine why

anyone would want to hurtyou,”hesaid.“Ithappensallthetime.”

Perhaps he couldunderstand it after all. Awoman like her probablyattracted psychopaths. No-one else would dare ask herout. Most men would justshrivelupandfeelinferior.“It’s so nice to be sitting

herewithyou,”hesaid.“It’s so nice to be sitting

here with you,” she retorted,gently stroking his hand.Theyeachorderedaglassof

red wine and started to talk,theyhadsomuchtosay,andhe didn’t notice his mobilevibrating in his pocket, notoncebuttwice,whichishowhecametoignoreacallfromBlomkvistforthefirsttimeinhislife.Soon afterwards she took

hishandandledhimoutintothe night. He did not askwhere they were going. Hewas prepared to follow her

anywhere. She was the mostwonderful creature he hadever met, and from time totime she gave him a smilethatmadeeverypavingstone,every breath, sound out apromise that somethingwonderful andoverwhelmingwas happening. You live anentire life for the sake of awalk like this, he thought,barely noticing the cold andthecityaroundhim.

Hewas intoxicated by hercompany and what mightawait him. But maybe – hewasn’tsure–therewasahintof suspicion too. At first hedismissed these thoughts, hisusual scepticism at any formof happiness. And yet hecould not help askinghimself:Isthistoogoodtobetrue?He studied Linda with a

new focus, and noticed that

noteverythingaboutherwasattractive. As they walkedpast Katarinahissen he eventhoughthenoticedsomethinghard in her eyes. He lookedanxiouslydownatthechoppywaters. “Where are wegoing?”“I have a friend with a

small apartment in MårtenTrotzigs gränd,” she said.“She lets me use itsometimes. We could have

another drink there.” Thatmadehim smile as if itwerethe most wonderful idea hehadeverheard.Yethe feltmoreandmore

confused. Not long ago hehad been looking after her,and now she had taken theinitiative. When a quickglanceathismobile toldhimthat Blomkvist had rungtwice, he felt he had to callback immediately. Come

whatmay,hecouldnotletthemagazinedown.“I’d like that,” he said.

“But first I have to make acall. I’m in the middle of astory.”“No,Andrei,”shesaid,ina

surprisingly firm tone.“You’re not calling anyone.Tonightit’sjustyouandme.”They got to Järntorget. In

spite of the storm therewerequiteafewpeoplearoundand

Lindastaredattheground,asif she did not want to benoticed. He looked over tothe right at ÖsterlånggatanandthestatueofEvertTaube.The troubadourwas standingthere immobile, holding asheet of music in his righthand,lookingupattheskyindark glasses. Should hesuggest that they meet thefollowingday?“Maybe…”hestarted.

Hegot no further, becauseshe pulled him to her andkissedhimwithaforcewhichemptied his mind. Then shestepped up the pace again.Sheheldhishandandpulledhim to the left intoVästerlånggatan, then rightinto a dark alley. Was thatsomeone behind them? No,no, the footsteps and voiceshe could hear came fromfurther away. Itwas just him

and Linda, wasn’t it? Theypassed a window with a redframe and black shutters andcame to a grey door whichLinda had some troubleopening. The key wasshaking in her hand and hewondered at that. Was shestill afraid of her ex-husbandandhisgoon?Theyclimbedadark stone

stairway. Their footstepsechoed and therewas a faint

smellofsomethingrotten.Ononeofthestepspastthethirdfloor he saw a playing card,the queen of spades, and hedidnotlikethat,buthecouldnot understand why, it wasprobably some sillysuperstition. He tried toignoreit,andthinkabouthowgreatitwasthattheyhadmet.Lindawas breathing heavily.Her righthandwasclenched.A man’s laughter could be

heard in the alley. Notlaughing at him, surely? Hewasjustagitated.Butitfeltasif they were climbing andclimbing and not gettinganywhere. Could the housereally be so tall? No, heretheywere.Thefriendlivedintheatticapartment.Thenameon thedoorwas

Orlov and again Linda tookout her bunch of keys. This

time her hand was notshaking.

Blomkvist was sitting in anapartmentwith old-fashionedfurniture on Prostvägen inSolna, next to a largechurchyard. Just asPalmgrenhad anticipated, MargaretaDahlgrenagreedtoseehimatonce, and even though shehad sounded manic over the

telephonesheturnedouttobeanelegantladyinhersixties.She was wearing afashionable fawn jumper andneatlypressedblack trousers.Perhaps she had had time todressup forhim.Shewas inhigh-heeled shoes and had itnotbeenforher restlesseyeshewouldhavethoughthertobe a woman at peace withherself,despiteeverything.

“You want to hear aboutCamilla,”shesaid.“Especially about her life

more recently – if you knowanythingaboutit,”hesaid.“I remember when she

came to us,” she said, as ifshe had not been listening.“My husband Kjell thoughtwecouldmakeacontributiontosocietyatthesametimeasadding to our little family.We had only one child, you

see, our poor Moa. She wasfourteen then, and quitelonely. We thought it woulddo her good if we took in afosterdaughterofroughlythesameage.”“Did you know what had

happened in the Salanderfamily?”“We didn’t have all the

details, but we knew that ithadbeenawfulandtraumaticand themotherwas sick and

the father had sufferedserious burns. We weredeeply moved and wereexpecting tomeet a girlwhohad fallen apart, someonewhowouldneedanincredibleamountofcareandaffection.But do you know whatarrived?”“Tellme.”“The most adorable girl

we’deverseen.Itwasn’tjustthat she was pretty. My

goodness, you should haveheard her talk. She was sowiseandmature,andshetoldsuch heart-rending storiesabout how her mentally illsister had terrorized thefamily.Yes, of course I nowknowhow far from the truththat was. But how could wehave doubted her then? Hereyes were bright withconviction, and when wesaid, ‘How dreadful, poor

you,’sheanswered,‘Itwasn’teasy,butIstilllovemysister;she’s justsickandnowshe’sgettingtreatment.’Itsoundedso grown-up and full ofempathy, and for a while italmost felt like she was theone taking care of us. Ourwhole family lit up, as ifsomething glamorous hadcomeintoourlivesandmadeeverything bigger and morebeautiful, andwe blossomed.

AndMoablossomedmostofall.Shebegantotakecareofher appearance, and quitesoon she became morepopular at school. TherewasnothingIwouldn’thavedonefor Camilla right then. AndKjell,myhusband,whatcanIsay? He was a new person.Hewassmilingand laughingall thetime,andwebegantomake love again, if you’llforgive my being so frank.

PerhapsIshouldhavestartedtoworryeventhen.Butitfeltlike everything had finallyfallen into place for ourfamily. For a while wewereall happy, as everybody iswho meets Camilla. They’rehappy to start with. Then…after some timewithheryoudon’twanttoliveanymore.”“Isitasbadasthat?”“It’shorrific.”“Sowhathappened?”

“Apoisonbegan to spreadamong us. Camilla slowlytook control of our family.Lookingback,it’simpossibleto say when the party endedand the nightmare began. Ithad happened so graduallyand imperceptibly that wewokeuponedayandrealizedeverything was ruined: ourtrust, our sense of security,the very foundations of ourlife together. Moa’s self-

confidence plummeted. Shelay awake at night weeping,saying she was ugly andhorribleanddidn’tdeservetolive. Only later did we findout that her savings accounthad been cleaned out. I stilldon’t know how thathappened.ButI’mconvincedCamilla blackmailed her.Blackmail came as naturallyto her as breathing. Shecollected compromising

information on people. For along time I thought she waskeeping a diary, but actuallyit was a catalogue of all thedirt she’d collected aboutpeopleclosetoher.AndKjell…thebastard…youknow,Ibelieved him when he saidthat he’d started havingproblemssleepingandneededtousethebedinthebasementguest room. But that was anexcuse to be with Camilla.

Starting when she wassixteen, she would sneak inthere at night and havepervertedsexwithhim.Isayperverted because I gotwindofwhatwasgoingonwhenIasked about the cuts onKjell’s chest. He didn’t sayanythingthen,ofcourse.Justgave me some unconvincingexplanation and somehow Imanaged to suppress mysuspicions.But doyouknow

what they did? In the endKjell came clean: Camillatiedhimupandcuthimwitha knife. He said she enjoyedit.SometimesIevenhopeditwas true, strange though thatmay sound, but I hoped thatshe got something out of itand didn’t only want totorture him, to destroy hislife.”“Did she blackmail him

too?”

“Oh yes, but I don’t havethe full story. He was sohumiliatedbyCamillathathewasn’t willing to tell me thetruth,evenwhenallwaslost.Kjellhadbeentherockinourfamily. If we lost our waywhileoutdriving,iftherewasaflood,ifanyofusfellill,hewas the calm, sensible one.‘It’llallbealright,’hewouldsayinhiswonderfulvoice–Istill fantasize about it. But

afterafewyearswithCamillain thehousehewasawreck.Hardly dared to cross theroad, lookedahundred timestomakesureitwassafe.Andhelostallmotivationatwork,he just sat with his headhanging. One of his closestcolleagues, Mats Hedlund,rang and told me inconfidence that an inquiryhadbeensetuptoinvestigatewhether Kjell had been

selling company secrets. Itsounded crazy.Kjellwas themost honest man I’ve everknown. Plus if he’d soldanything, where was themoney? We had less thanever. His bank account wasstripped bare, same with ourjointaccount.”“Forgive my asking, but

howdidhedie?”“He hanged himself –

without a word of

explanation. I came homefromworkonedayandfoundhim swinging from theceilingintheguestroom,yes,the same room in whichCamillahadhadherfunwithhim.Iwasawell-paidC.F.O.atthetime,andchancesareIwouldhavehadagreatcareerto look forward to. But afterthat, Moa’s and my worldcollapsed. I won’t go into itany further. You want to

know what happened toCamilla. But there was noend to the misery. Moastarted cutting herself andpractically stopped eating.One day she asked me if Ithought she was scum. ‘MyGod,darling,’Ireplied,‘howcan you say something likethat?’ThenshetoldmeitwasCamilla. That Camilla hadclaimed every single personwho had ever met Moa

thought she was repulsive. Isought all the help I could:psychologists, doctors, wisefriends, Prozac. But to noavail. One gloriouslybeautiful spring day, whenthe rest of Sweden wascelebrating some ridiculoustriumph in the EurovisionSong Contest, Moa jumpedfrom a ferry, and my lifeendedwithhers– that’showitfelt.Inolongerhadthewill

to live and spent a long timein hospital being treated fordepression. But then … Idon’t know… somehow theparalysis and grief turned torage, and I felt that I neededto understand. What hadactually happened to ourfamily?Whatsortofevilhadseeped in? I started to makeenquiries about Camilla, notbecause I wanted to see heragain, not under any

circumstances. But I wantedto understand her, the sameway a parent of a murdervictim wants to understandthemurderer.”“Whatdidyoudiscover?”“Nothing to begin with.

Shehadcoveredher tracks–itwaslikechasingashadow,aphantom.Idon’tknowhowmany tens of thousands ofkronor I spent on privatedetectives and other

unreliable people whopromised to help me. I wasgetting nowhere, and it wasdriving me crazy. I becamefixated. I hardly slept, andnoneofmyfriendscouldbearto be with me any more. Itwas a terrible time. PeoplethoughtIwasbeingobsessiveandstubborn,maybetheystilldo – I don’t know whatHolger Palmgren told you.Butthen…”

“Goon.”“YourstoryonZalachenko

was published. Naturally thename meant nothing to me,but I started to put two andtwotogether.IreadabouthisSwedish identity, Karl AxelBodin, and about hisconnection with SvavelsjöMotorcycle Club, and then Iremembered all the dreadfulevenings towards the end,after Camilla had turned her

backonus.AtthetimeIwasoftenwoken up by the noiseof motorbikes, and I couldsee those leather waistcoatswiththatawfulemblemfrommy bedroom window. Itdidn’t surprise me that shemixed with those sorts ofpeople. I no longer had anyillusionsabouther.ButIhadno idea that this was theworld she came from – andthatshewasexpectingtotake

over her father’s businessinterests.”“Anddidshe?”“Oh yes. In her own dirty

world she fought for therightsofwomen–atleastforher own rights – and I knowthatitmeantalottomanyofthe girls in the club,most ofalltoKajsaFalk.”“Whowasshe?”“A sassy, lovely looking

girl,herboyfriendwasoneof

theleaders.Shespentalotoftime at our homeduring thatlast year, and I rememberliking her. She had big blueeyeswithaslightsquint,anda compassionate, vulnerableside behind her toughexterior. After reading yourstory I looked her up again.She didn’t say a word aboutCamilla, though she was byno means unpleasant. Inoticed that her style had

changed: the biker girl hadbecome a businesswoman.Butshedidn’t talkabout it. Ithought I’d hit another deadend.”“Butitwasn’t?”“No. About a year ago

Kajsa looked me up of herown accord, and by then shehadchangedagain.Therewasnothing reserved or coolabout her.This time shewashounded and nervous. Not

longafter thatshewasfounddead, shot at Stora Mossenssports centre in Bromma.When we met she told metherehadbeenadisputeoverthe inheritance afterZalachenko’s death.Camilla’stwinsister,Lisbeth,came away more or lessempty-handed – apparentlyshedidn’tevenwantthelittlethat she got – while themajority of the assets fell to

Zalachenko’s two survivingsons in Berlin, and some toCamilla.Sheinheritedpartofthe trafficking business youwrote about in your report,andthatmademyheartbleed.I doubt Camilla cared aboutthosewomen,orfeltanysortof compassion for them. Butstill, she didn’twant to haveanything to do with thoseactivities. She said to Kajsathat only losers bother with

that sort of filth. She had acompletely different, modernvision of what theorganizationshouldbedoing,andafterhardnegotiationshegotoneofherhalf-brotherstobuy her out. Then shedisappeared to Moscow withher capital and some of theemployees who wanted tofollowher,KajsaFalkamongthem.”

“Doyouknowwhatsortofbusinessshewassettingup?”“Kajsanevergotenoughof

an insight to understand it,but we had our suspicions. Ithink itwas to dowith thosetrade secrets at Ericsson. Bynow I’m almost certainCamillareallydidgetKjelltosteal and sell on somethingvaluable, presumably byblackmailing him. I’ve alsofound out that in her first

yearswithussheaskedsomecomputer geeks at school tohack into my computer.According to Kajsa, she wasmore or less obsessed withhacking.Not thatshe learnedanything about it herself, notat all, but she was forevertalking about the money onecould make by accessingbank accounts and hackingservers and stealinginformation. She must have

developed a business alongthoselines.”“That sounds very

possible.”“Itwas probably at a very

high level. Camilla wouldneversettleforanythingless.AccordingtoKajsa,shesoonfoundherwayintoinfluentialcircles in Moscow, andamong other things becamethe mistress of some rich,powerful member of the

Duma, and with him shebegan to forge connectionswith a strange crew of topengineers and criminals. Shewound them round her littlefinger, and she knew exactlywhere the weak point in thedomesticeconomywas.”“Andwhatwasthat?”“The fact that Russia is

little more than a petrolstation with a flag on top.They export oil and natural

gas, butmanufacture nothingworth mentioning. Russianeedsadvancedtechnology.”“She wanted to give them

that?”“That, at least, iswhat she

pretended.But obviously shehad her own agenda. I knowthat Kajsa was impressed bythe way she built allianceswith people and got herselfpolitical protection. Sheprobably would have been

loyal to Camilla for ever ifshehadn’tbecomescared.”“Whatwasshescaredof?”“Kajsa got to know a

formerelitesoldier–amajor,I believe – and just lost herbearings. According toconfidential information thatCamillahadaccesstoviaherlover,themanhadcarriedoutafewshadyoperationsfortheRussian government. Amongother things he had killed a

well-known journalist, Ipresumeyou’veheardofher,IrinaAzarova. She’d taken aline against the governmentinvariousreportsandbooks.”“Ohyes,trulyaheroine.A

horriblestory.”“Absolutely. Something

went wrong in the planning.Azarova was supposed tomeetacriticof theregimeinan apartment on a backstreetin a suburb south-east of

Moscow,andaccordingtotheplan themajorwas supposedtoshootherasshecameout.But no-one knew that thejournalist’s sister haddeveloped pneumonia, andIrina had to look after twoniecesagedeightandten.Asshe and the girls walked outof the front entrance themajor shot all three of themin the face.After that he fellinto disgrace – not that

anybody was particularlybothered about the children,but public opinion wasgettingoutofhandand therewas a risk that the wholeoperation would beuncoveredand turnedagainstthe government. I think themajor was afraid he’d bemade a scapegoat. He wasalso dealing with a load ofpersonal problems at thesametime.Hiswifetookoff,

he was left alone with ateenage daughter and Ibelieve there was even apossibility of his beingevicted from his apartment.From Camilla’s perspectivethat was a perfect set-up: aruthless person whom shecould use, and who foundhimself in a vulnerablesituation.”“Soshegothimonboard.”

“Yes, theymet.Kajsawasthere too, and the strangething was that sheimmediately took a liking tothis man. He wasn’t at allwhat she’d been expecting,nothing like the people sheknewatSvavelsjöM.C.,whowere also killers. The manwasveryfit,verystrong,andhad a brutal look about him,buthewasalsocultivatedandpolite, she said, somehow

vulnerable and sensitive.Kajsa could tell that he feltreally terrible about shootingthose children. He was amurderer, a man whosespeciality had been tortureduring the war in Chechnya,but he still had his moralboundaries, she said, andthat’s why she was so upsetwhen Camilla got her clawsinto him – almost literally.She dragged her nails across

hischestandhissedlikeacat,‘I want you to kill for me.’Herwordswerechargedwithsexual tension, and with theskill of the devil sheawakened the man’s sadism.The more gruesome hisdescriptions of his murders,themoreexcitedshebecame.I’m not sure I understood itall, but it scared Kajsa todeath. Not the murdererhimself, but Camilla. Her

beautyandalluremanagedtobring out the predator inhim.”“Youneverreportedthisto

thepolice?”“I asked Kajsa over and

over. I told her she neededprotection. She said shealreadyhaditandsheforbademetotalktothepolice.Iwasstupidenoughtolistentoher.After her death I told theinvestigators what I’d heard,

but I doubt theybelievedme– presumably not. It wasnothing but hearsay about aman without a name inanothercountry.Camillawasnowhere to be found in anyrecords, and I neverdiscoveredanythingabouthernew identity. And certainlypoor Kajsa’s murder is stillunsolved.”“I do understand how

painful this must still be,”

Blomkvistsaid.“Youdo?”“I think so,” he said, and

was about to rest asympathetichandonherarm.Hewasbroughtupshortby

his mobile buzzing in hispocket. He hoped it wasZander. But it was StefanMolde. It took Blomkvist afew seconds to identify himasthepersonat theN.D.R.E.

who had been in touch withLinusBrandell.“What’s this about?” he

said.“A meeting with a senior

civil servant who’s on hisway to Sweden.Hewants tosee you as early as possibletomorrow morning at theGrandHôtel.”Blomkvist made an

apologetic gesture in FruDahlgren’sdirection.

“I have a tight schedule,”he said, “So if I’m to meetanybody, at the very least Iwant a name and anexplanation.”“Theman’snameisEdwin

Needham, and it’s aboutsomeone using the handleWasp, who is suspected ofseriouscrimes.”Blomkvist felt a wave of

panic.“O.K.,”hesaid.“Whattime?”

“Five o’clock tomorrowmorningwouldwork.”“You’vegottobejoking!”“Regrettably there’s

nothing to joke about in allthis. I suggest that you’repunctual. Mr Needham willsee you in his room. You’llhave to leave yourmobile atreception, and you’ll besearched.”Blomkvist got to his feet

and took his leave of

MargaretaDahlgren.

PARTIII

ASYMMETRICPROBLEMS

24.xi–3.xii

Sometimes it is easier to puttogetherthantoputasunder.Nowadays computers can

easilymultiplyprimenumberswithmillionsofdigits.Yetitisextremely complicated toreverse the process. Numberswithonlyafewhundreddigitspresenthugeproblems.

Encryption algorithms likeR.S.A. take advantage of thedifficulties involved in prime-number factorization. Primenumbers have becomesecrecy’sbestfriends.

CHAPTER25

24.xi,EarlyMorning

It had not taken long forSalandertoidentifytheRoger

whom August had beendrawing. She had seen ayounger version of the manonawebsite showing formeractors fromRevolutionsteatern inVasastan. He was calledRogerWinter. He had had acouple ofmajor film roles atthe beginning of his career,butlatelyhadfetchedupinabackwater, andwasnow lesswell known than his

wheelchair-bound brotherTobias, an outspokenprofessorofbiologywhowassaid these days to havedistanced himself altogetherfromRoger.Salander wrote down

Roger Winter’s address andthen hacked into thesupercomputer N.S.F. M.R.I.Shealsoopened theprogramwithwhichshewas trying toconstruct a dynamic system

for finding theellipticcurveswhichweremost likelytodothe job, and with as fewiterations as possible. Butwhatever she tried, she wasunable to get any closer to asolution. The N.S.A. fileremainedimpenetrable.Intheend she went and looked inon August. She swore. Theboywas awake, sitting up inbed writing something on apiece of paper, and as she

cameclosershecouldseethathe was doing more prime-numberfactorizations.“It’s no good. It’s not

getting us anywhere,” shemuttered, and when Augustbegan to rock to and frohysterically once again shetold him to pull himselftogetherandgobacktosleep.Itwaslateandshedecided

that she too should rest for awhile. She took the bed next

to his, but it was impossibleto sleep. August tossed andturnedandwhimpered,andinthe end Salander decided tosaysomething,totrytosettlehim.Thebestshecouldthinkofwas, “Doyouknowaboutellipticcurves?”Of course she got no

answer.Thatdidnotdeterherfrom giving as simple andclear an explanation as shecould.

“Doyougetit?”shesaid.Augustdidnotreply.“O.K., then,” shewent on.

“Take thenumber3,034,267,for example. I knowyoucaneasily find its prime-numberfactors. But it can also bedone using elliptic curves.Let’sforexampletakecurve

and point P =(1.2)onthatcurve.”She wrote the equation on

a piece of paper on the

bedsidetable.ButAugustdidnot seem to be following atall. She thought about thoseautistictwinsshehadreadupon. They had somemysteriouswayofidentifyinglarge prime numbers, yetcould not solve the simplestequations. Perhaps Augustwas like that too. Perhaps hewas more of a calculatingmachine than a genuinemathematical talent, and in

anycaseitdidn’tmatterrightnow. Her bullet wound wasaching again and she neededsome sleep. She needed todrive out all her oldchildhooddemonswhichhadcometolifeagainbecauseoftheboy.

It was past midnight by thetime Blomkvist got homeand, even though he was

exhausted and had to get upat the crack of dawn, he satdown at his computer andGoogled Edwin Needham.TherewerequiteafewEdwinNeedhams in the world,including a successful rugbyplayer who had made anextraordinary comebackhavinghadleukaemia.There was one Edwin

Needham who seemed to bean expert on water

purification,andanotherwhowas good at getting himselfinto society photographs andlooking daft. But none ofthem seemed right forsomeone who could havebeen involved in crackingWasp’s identity andaccusingherofcriminalactivity.TherewasanEdwinNeedhamwhowasacomputerengineerwithaPh.D.fromM.I.T.,andthatwas at least the right line of

business, but not even heseemed to fit.Hewas now aseniorexecutiveatSafeline,aleading business in computervirus protection, and thatcompany would certainlyhave an interest in hackers.But the statements made bythis Ed, as he was known,were all about market shareandnewproducts.Nothinghesaid rated higher than theusual clichéd sales talk, not

evenwhenhegot thechanceto talk about his leisurepursuits: bowling and flyfishing. He loved nature, hesaid,helovedthecompetitiveaspect … The mostthreatening thing he seemedcapable of doing was boringpeopletodeath.Therewasapictureofhim,

grinning and bare-chested,holding up a large salmon,the sort of snap which are a

dime a dozen in fishingcircles. It was as dull aseverything else, and yetgraduallyBlomkvistbegantowonder whether the dullnessmightnotbethewholepoint.He read through thematerialagain and this time it struckhim as something concocted,afacade.Slowlybutsurelyhecame to the oppositeconclusion:thiswastheman.You could smell the

intelligence services a mileoff, couldn’t you? It felt likeN.S.A. or C.I.A. Once againhe looked at the photographwiththesalmon,andthistimehe thoughthesawsomethingverydifferent.Hesawatoughguyputting

on an act. There wassomething unwavering aboutthe way he stood and hismockinggrinintothecamera,atleastthatiswhatBlomkvist

imagined, and again hethought of Salander. Hewondered if he ought to tellher about this meeting. Buttherewasnoreason toworryher now, especially since hedid not actually knowanything, so instead hedecided to go to bed. Heneeded to sleep for a fewhours and have a clear headwhenhemetNeedhaminthemorning. As he slowly

brushed his teeth andundressed and climbed intobed,herealizedhewasmoretired than he could haveimaginedandfellasleepinnotime.Hedreamedthathewasbeing dragged under andalmost drowned in the riverNeedham had been standingin.Afterwardshehadavagueimage of himself crawlingalongtheriverbedsurroundedby flopping, thrashing

salmon. But he cannot haveslept for long.Hewokewitha start and the growingconviction that he hadoverlooked something. Hismobile was lying on thebedsidetableandhisthoughtsturned to Zander. The youngman must have been on hismindallalong.

Linda had double-locked thedoor. Therewas nothing oddabout that – awoman in hersituation had to take allpossible precautions. It stillmade Zander feeluncomfortable,butheputthatdown to the apartment, or sohe tried to convince himself.Itwasnot at allwhathehadbeen expecting. Could thisreally be the homeof one ofhergirlfriends?

Thebedwasbroadbutnotespecially long, and both theheadboard and the footboardwere made of shiny steellatticework. The bedspreadwas black, which made himthink of a bier, and hedisliked the pictures on thewalls – mostly framedphotographs of men withweapons.Therewasasterile,chillyfeeltothewholeplace.

On the other hand he wasprobably just nervous andexaggerating everything, orlooking for an excuse to getaway.Amanalwayswantstoescape the thing he loves –hadn’t Oscar Wilde saidsomething like that? HelookedatLinda.Neverbeforehad he seen such anextraordinarily beautifulwoman, and now she wascoming towards him in her

tight blue dress whichaccentuated her figure. As ifshe had been reading hismind she said, “Would yourathergohome,Andrei?”“I do have quite a lot on

myplate.”“I understand,” she said,

kissinghim. “Thenyoumustof coursegoandgetonwithyourwork.”“Maybe that would be

best,” he muttered as she

pressed herself against him,kissing him with such forcethathehadnodefence.He responded to her kiss

andputhishandsonherhips,and she gave him a shove.She pushed him so hard thathe staggered and fellbackwards onto the bed, andfor amoment hewas scared.Butthenhelookedather.Shewas smiling as tenderly nowasbeforeandhethought:this

was nothing more than a bitof rough play. She reallywanted him, didn’t she? Shewanted to make love withhimthereandthen,andhelether straddle his body,unbutton his shirt, and drawher fingernails over hisstomachwhilehereyesshonewithan intenseglowandherlarge breasts heaved beneathher dress. Her mouth wasopen. A trickle of saliva ran

down her chin and shewhispered something hecouldnotatfirsthear.“Now,Andrei,”shewhisperedagain.“Now!”“Now?” he repeated

uncertainly, and felt hertearing off his trousers. Shewasmorebrazenthanhehadexpected,moreaccomplishedand wildly lascivious thananybodyhehadmet.

“Close your eyes and lieabsolutelystill,”shesaid.He obeyed and could hear

her fiddling with something,he was not sure what. Thenheard a click and felt metalaround his wrists, andrealized he had beenhandcuffed.Hewas about toprotest,hedidnotreallygoinforthatsortofthing,butitallhappened so fast. Withlightningspeed,as ifshehad

done it many times, shelocked his hands to theheadboard. Then she boundhis feetwith rope and pulledtight.“Gently,”hesaid.“Don’t worry,” but then

she gave him a look he didnotlikeandsaidsomethinginasolemnvoice.Hemusthavemisheard.“What?”hesaid.“I’mgoingtocutyouwith

a knife, Andrei,” she said,

and fixed a broad piece oftapeacrosshismouth.

Blomkvist was trying to tellhimself not to worry. Whywould anything havehappened to Zander?No-one– apart from Berger andhimself – knew that he wasinvolved in protecting thewhereabouts of Salander andthe boy. They had been

extremely careful with thatpiece of information, morecareful than with any otherpart of the story.And yet…why had there been nowordfromhim?Zander was not someone

who ignored his mobile. Onthe contrary, he normallypicked up on the first ringwhenever Blomkvist called.Butnowtherewasnowayofgetting hold of him, and that

was strange, wasn’t it? Ormaybe … again Blomkvisttriedtoconvincehimself thatZanderwasbusyworkingandhad lost track of time, or inthe worst case had droppedhis mobile. That wasprobably all it was. But still… after all these yearsCamilla had appeared out ofnowhere. Somethingmust begoing on, and what was itBublanskihadsaid?

“We live in a world inwhich paranoia is arequirement.”Blomkvist reached for the

telephone on the bedsidetableandcalledZanderagain.He got no answer this timeeither, so decided to waketheirnewstaffmember,EmilGrandén, who lived nearZander in the Röda bergenarea of Vasastan. Grandénsoundedlessthanenthusiastic

but promised to go over toZander’s right away to see ifhewasthere.Twentyminuteslater he rang back. He hadbeen banging on Zander’sdoorforawhile,hesaid,andhedefinitelywasn’tathome.Blomkvist got dressed and

left his apartment, hurryingthroughadesertedandstorm-lashedSödermalmdistrict upto the magazine offices onGötgatan. With any luck, he

thought, Zander would belying asleep on the sofa. Itwouldnotbethefirsttimehehad nodded off at work andnotheard the telephone.Thatwould be the simpleexplanation. But Blomkvistfelt more and more uneasy.Whenheopenedthedoorandturned off the alarm heshivered, as if expecting tofind a scene of devastation,but after a search of the

premiseshefoundnotraceofanything untoward. All theinformation on his encryptedemail program had beencarefullydeleted, justas theyhadagreed.Itall lookedasitshould, but there was noZander lying on the officesofa, which was looking asshabby and empty as ever.For a short while Blomkvistsat there, lost in thought.ThenherangGrandénagain.

“Emil,”hesaid,“I’msorryto harass you like this in themiddle of the night. But thiswhole story has made meparanoid.”“Icanunderstandthat.”“I couldn’t help hearing

that you sounded a bitstressed when I was talkingabout Andrei. Is thereanything you haven’t toldme?”

“Nothingyoudon’talreadyknow,”Grandénsaid.“Whatdoyoumean?”“ImeanthatI’vespokento

theDataInspectionAuthoritytoo.”“What do you mean, you

too?”“Youmeanyouhaven’t—”“No!” Blomkvist cut him

short and heard Grandén’sbreathing at the other end ofthe line become laboured.

There had been a terriblemistake.“Out with it, Emil, and

fast,”hesaid.“So…”“Yes?”“I had a call from a Lina

Robertsson at the DataInspection Authority. Shesaid that you’d spoken andshe agreed to raise the levelofsecurityonyourcomputer,given the circumstances.

Apparently therecommendationsshe’dgivenyouwerewrongandshewasworried the protectionwouldbe insufficient. She said shewanted to get hold of theperson who’d arranged theencryptionforyouasap.”“Andwhatdidyousay?”“ThatIknewnothingabout

it,exceptthatI’dseenAndreidoing something at yourcomputer.”

“SoyousaidsheshouldgetintouchwithAndrei.”“Ihappenedtobeoutatthe

timeand toldher thatAndreiwas probably still in theoffice. She could ring himthere,Isaid.Thatwasall.”“Jesus,Emil.”“Butshesoundedreally—”“I don’t care how she

sounded.I justhopeyoutoldAndreiaboutthecall.”

“Maybe not right away.I’m pretty snowed under atthemoment,likeallofus.”“Butyoutoldhimlater.”“Well, he left the office

before I got a chance to sayanything.”“So you called him

instead.”“Absolutely, several times.

But…”“Yes?”“Hedidn’tanswer.”

“O.K.,”Blomkvistsaid,hisvoiceicecold.He hung up and dialled

Bublanski’s number. He hadto try twice before the chiefinspector came to thetelephone. Blomkvist had nochoice but to tell him thewhole story – withoutdiscussing Salander andAugust’slocation.ThenhecalledBerger.

Salander had fallen asleep,but she was still ready foraction. She was still in herclothes, with her leatherjacket and her boots on. Shekept waking up, eitherbecauseofthehowlingstormor because August wasmoaning even in his sleep.Buteachtimeshedroppedoffagain, or at least dozed, andhad short, strangely realisticdreams.

Now she was dreamingabout her father beating hermother, and even then shecouldfeelthatold,fierceragefrom her childhood. She feltit so keenly that it woke herup again. It was 3.45 andthose scraps of paper onwhich she and August hadwritten their numbers werestill lying on the bedsidetable. Outside, snow wasfalling.Butthestormseemed

to have calmed and nothingunusual could be heard, justthewindhowlingandrustlingthroughthetrees.Yet she feltuneasy,andat

first she thought it was thedream lying like a finemeshover the room. Then sheshuddered. The bed next toherwasempty–Augustwasgone. She shot out of bedwithout making a sound,grabbed herBeretta from the

bag on the floor and creptinto the large room next totheterrace.The next moment she

breathed a sigh of relief.August was sitting at thetable, busy with something.Without wanting to disturbhim she leaned over hisshoulderandsawthathewasnot writing new prime-number factorizations, ordrawing fresh scenes of

abuse. He was sketchingchesssquares reflected in themirrors of a wardrobe, andabove them could be madeout a threatening figure withhis hand outstretched. Thekiller was taking shape.Salandersmiled,andthenshewithdrew.Back in the bedroom she

sat on the bed, removed herpulloverandthebandageandinspectedthebulletwound.It

didn’tlookgood,andshestillfelt weak. She swallowedanother couple of antibioticpills and tried to rest. Shemightevenhavegonebacktosleepforafewmoments.Shewas aware of a vaguesensation that she had seenbothZala andCamilla inherdream, and the next secondshe became aware of apresence, though she had noideawhat.A bird flapped its

wingsoutside.ShecouldhearAugust’s laboured breathingin the kitchen. She was justabout to get up when ascreampiercedtheair.

By the time Blomkvist leftthe office in the earlymorning hours to take a taxito the Grand Hôtel, he stillhad no news of Zander. Hetried again to persuade

himself that he had beenoverreacting, that anymoment now his colleaguewould be calling from somefriend’s place.But theworrywould not go away. He wasvaguely aware that it hadstarted snowing again, andthatawoman’sshoehadbeenleft lying on the pavement.HetookouthisSamsungandcalled Salander on theRedphoneapp.

Salander did not pick up,and that did not make himany calmer. He tried oncemoreandsentatextfromtheThreema app: <Camilla’s after

you. Leave now!> Then hecaughtsightofa taxicomingdown from Hökens gata andnoticedthedrivergiveastartwhen he saw him. At thatmoment Blomkvist lookeddangerously determined. Itdid not help that he failed to

respond to the driver’sattempts to chat. He just satbackinthedarkness,hiseyesbrightwithworry.Stockholm was more or

less deserted. The storm hadabated but there were stillwhite-crested waves on thewater. Blomkvist lookedacross to theGrandHôtel onthe other side and wonderedif he should forget about themeeting with Mr Needham

and drive straight out toSalander instead, or at leastarrangeforapolicecar togothere.No,hecouldn’tdothatwithoutwarningher.Anotherleakwould be disastrous.Heopened the Threema appagainandtappedin:

<Shall I get help?>Noanswer.Ofcoursethere

was no answer. He paid thefare and climbed out of thetaxi, lost in thought. By the

timehewaspushing throughthe revolving doors of thehotel it was 4.20 in themorning – he was fortyminutes early. He had neverbeen forty minutes early foranything.Buthewasburninginside and, before going tothe receptiondesk tohand inhismobiles,hecalledBerger.Hetoldher to try togetholdof Salander and to keep intouchwiththepolice.

“If you hear anything, callthe Grand Hôtel and ask forMrNeedham’sroom.”“Andwho’she?”“Someone who wants to

meetme.”“Atthistime?”

Needham was in room 654.The door opened and therestoodamanreekingofsweatandrage.Therewasaboutas

much resemblance to thefigure in the fishingphotographastherewouldbebetween a hungover dictatorand his stylized statue.Needham had a drink in hishand and looked grim,dishevelledandalittlebitlikeabulldog.“MrNeedham,”Blomkvist

said.“Ed,” Needham said. “I’m

sorrytohaulyouoverhereat

this ungodly hour, but it’surgent.”“So it would seem,”

Blomkvistsaiddrily.“Do you have any idea

what I want to talk to youabout?”Blomkvist shook his head

andsatdownonasofa.Therewasabottleofginandsomesmall bottles of Schweppestoniconthedesknexttoit.

“No indeed, why wouldyou?”Needhamsaid.“Ontheother hand it’s impossible toknowwithguyslikeyou.I’vecheckedyouout.Youshouldknow that I hate to flatterpeople– it leavesabad tastein my mouth – but you’repretty outstanding in yourprofession,aren’tyou?”Blomkvist gave a forced

smile.“Canwejustgettothepoint?”hesaid.

“Just relax. I’ll be crystalclear. I assume you knowwhereIwork.”“Not exactly,” he said

truthfully.“In Puzzle Palace,

SIG.INT.City.Iworkfortheworld’sspittoon.”“TheN.S.A.”“Damn right.Doyouhave

any idea how fucking insaneyou have to be tomesswith

us, Mikael Blomkvist? Doyou?”“Ihaveaprettygoodidea,”

hesaid.“AnddoyouknowwhereI

think your girlfriend reallybelongs?”“No.”“She belongs behind bars.

Forlife!”Blomkvist gave what he

hopedwasacalm,composedlittle smile. But in fact his

mind was spinning. DidSalander hack the N.S.A.?The mere thought terrifiedhim. Not only was she inhiding, with killers on thehunt for her. Was she alsogoing tohave the entireU.S.intelligence shock troopsdescend on her? It sounded…well,howdid it sound?Itsoundedtotallyoffthewall.One of Salander’s abiding

characteristics was that she

never did anything withoutfirst carefully analysing thepotential consequences. Shedid not follow impulses orwhimsandthereforehecouldnot imagine she would takesuch an idiotic risk if therewas the slightest chance ofbeing found out. Sometimessheputherselfindanger,thatwas true, but there wasalways a balance betweencostsandbenefits.Herefused

to believe that she had gotherself into the N.S.A.’ssystems,onlytoallowherselfto be outwitted by thesplenetic bulldog standing infrontofhim.“I think you’re jumping to

conclusions,”hesaid.“Dreamon, dude.But you

heard me use the word‘really’justthen.Someword,hey?Canbeused inall sortsof ways. I don’t really drink

inthemornings,andyethereIamwithaglassinmyhand,haha!WhatI’mtryingtosayis that you might be able tosave your girlfriend’s skin ifyoupromise tohelpmewithoneortwothings.”“I’mlistening,”hesaid.“Peachy. Let me begin by

asking for a guarantee thatyou’ll not quote me as yoursource.”

Blomkvistlookedathiminsurprise.Hehadnotexpectedthat.“Are you some kind of

whistleblower?”“God help me, no. I’m a

loyaloldbloodhound.”“But you’re not acting

officially on behalf of theN.S.A.”“You could say that right

now I havemy own agenda.

Sort of doingmy own thing.Well,howaboutit?”“Iwon’tquoteyou.”“Great.Ialsowanttomake

sure we agree that what I’mgoing to tell you now willstay between us. You mightbe wondering why the hellI’mtellingafantasticstorytoan investigative journalist,only to have him keep histrapshut.”“Goodquestion.”

“Ihavemy reasons.And Itrustyou–don’taskmewhy.I’m betting that you want toprotect your girlfriend, andyou think the real story iselsewhere. Maybe I’ll evenhelp you with that, if you’repreparedtocooperate.”“That remains tobe seen,”

Blomkvistsaidstiffly.“Well, a few days agowe

had a data breach on our

intranet, our NSANet. Youknowaboutthat,don’tyou?”“Moreorless.”“NSANetwascreatedafter

9/11,toimprovecoordinationbetweenourownintelligenceserviceson theonehandandthose in other English-speaking countries – knownastheFiveEyes.It’saclosedsystem,with its own routers,portals and bridges, and it’scompletely separate from the

rest of the Internet. Weadminister our signalsintelligence from there viasatelliteandfibre-opticcablesandthat’salsowherewehaveour big databases and storeclassified analyses andreports – from Moray-rateddocuments, the leastsensitive, all the way up toUmbra Ultra Top Secret,which even the President ofthe United States isn’t

allowedtosee.Thesystemisrun out of Texas, which bythewayisidiotic.Butit’sstillmy baby. Let me tell you,Mikael, I workedmy ass offto create it.Hammered awayat itdayandnightso thatnofucker couldmisuse it, nevermind hack it. Every singlelittleanomalysetsalarmbellsringing, plus there’s a wholestaff of independent expertsmonitoringthesystem.These

daysyoucan’tdoagoddamnthing on the web withoutleaving footprints. At leastthat’s the theory. Everythingis logged and analysed. Youshouldn’t be able to touch asingle key without ittriggering a notification. But…”“Somebodydid.”“Yes, and maybe I could

havemademypeacewith it.Therearealwaysweakspots,

we can always do better.Weak spots keep us on ourtoes. But it wasn’t just thefact that she managed to getin.Itwashowshedidit.Sheforcedourserverandcreatedan advanced bridge, and gotinto the intranet via one ofour systems administrators.That alone was a damnmasterpiece. But that wasn’tall,notbya longchalk: then

thebitchturnedherselfintoaghostuser.”“Awhat?”“Aghost.She flewaround

in there without anyonenoticing.”“And your alarm bells

didn’tgooff?”“That damn genius

introduced a Trojan unlikeanything else we knew,becauseotherwiseoursystemwouldhave identified it right

away.Themalwarethenkeptupgradingher status.Shegotmore and more access andsoaked up highly classifiedpasswords and codes andstarted to link and matchrecords and databases, andsuddenly–bingo!”“Bingowhat?”“She found what she was

looking for, and then shestopped wanting to beinvisible–nowshewantedto

show us what she’d found,and only then did my alarmbellsgooff:exactlywhenshewantedthemto.”“Andwhatdidshefind?”“She found our hypocrisy,

Mikael, our double-dealing,and that’s why I’m sittingherewithyouandnotonmyfat ass in Maryland, sendingthe Marines after her. Shewaslikea thiefbreakingintoahouse just to point out that

it was already full of stolengoods, and the minute wefound that out she becametruly dangerous – sodangerous that some of oursenior people wanted to letheroff.”“Butnotyou.”“Not me. I wanted to tie

her to a lamp post and flayheralive.ButIhadnochoiceexcepttogiveupmypursuit,and that, Mikael, seriously

pissed me off. I may lookcalm now, but you shouldhaveseenme…Jesus!”“Youwerehoppingmad.”“Damn right I was, and

that’swhyI’vehadyoucomehereatthisgodforsakenhour.I need to get hold of Waspbeforeshefleesthecountry.”“Whywouldsherun?”“Because she’s gone from

one crazy thing to the next,hasn’tshe?”

“Idon’tknow.”“Ithinkyoudo.”“And what makes you

thinkshe’syourhackerinthefirstplace?”“That,Mikael, iswhat I’m

goingtolayonyounow.”Buthegotnofurther.

TheroomtelephonerangandNeedham picked up rightaway. It was reception

looking for MikaelBlomkvist, and Needhamhanded him the receiver. Hesoon gathered that thejournalist had been givensome alarming news, so itwas no surprise when theSwede muttered a confusedapology and ran out of theroom. But Needham wouldnot let him get away thateasily, and sohegrabbedhiscoatandchasedafterhim.

Blomkvist was racingdown the corridor like asprinter. Needham did notknowwhatwasgoingon,butifithadsomethingtodowiththe Wasp/Balder story, hewanted to be there. He hadsometroublekeepingup–thejournalistwasintoomuchofahurrytowaitfortheliftandinstead hurtled down thestairs. By the time Needhamreached the ground floor,

panting, Blomkvist hadalready retrieved his mobilesandwasengrossedinanotherconversationwhile he ran ontowards the revolving doorsandoutintothestreet.“What’s happening?”

Needham said as thejournalist ended his call andwas trying to hail a taxi onthestreet.“Problems!” Blomkvist

said.

“Icandriveyou.”“Likehellyoucan.You’ve

beendrinking.”“At least we can take my

car.”Blomkvist slowedhispace

andturnedtoNeedham.“Whatisityouwant?”“I want us to help each

other.”“You’llhave tocatchyour

hackeronyourown.”

“I no longer have theauthoritytocatchanybody.”“O.K.,sowhere’sthecar?”As they ran to Needham’s

rental carparkedoverby theNationalmuseum, Blomkvisthurriedly explained that theywere heading out to theStockholm archipelago,towardsIngarö.Hewouldgetdirectionsonthewayandwasnot planning to observe anyspeedlimits.

CHAPTER26

24.xi,Morning

August screamed, and in thesame instant Salander heard

footsteps, rapid footstepsalong the side of the house.She grabbed her pistol andjumped to her feet. She feltterrible,butignoredit.As she rushed over to the

doorwayshesawalargemanappear on the terrace. For amoment she thought she hada split-second advantage, butthefiguredidnotstoptoopenthe glass doors. He chargedstraightthroughthemwithhis

weapondrawnandshotattheboy.Salander returned fire, or

perhapsshehadalreadydoneso,shedidnotknow.Shewasnot even conscious of themoment inwhich she startedrunningtowardstheman.Sheonly knew that she crashedinto himwith numbing forceand now lay on top of himrightbytheroundtablewherethe boy had been sitting

moments before. Without asecond’s hesitation sheheadbuttedtheman.Thecontactwassoviolent

that her head rang, and sheswayedasshegottoherfeet.The room was spinning andtherewas blood on her shirt.Had she been hit again? Shehad no time to think.Wherewas August? No-one at thetable, only pencils anddrawings, crayons, prime-

number calculations. Wherethehellwashe?Sheheard awhimpering by therefrigeratorand,yes,therehewas, sitting and shaking, hisknees drawn up to his chest.He must have had time tothrowhimselftothefloor.Salanderwasabouttorush

over to him when she heardnew, worrying sounds fromoutside, voices and branchessnapping. Others were

approaching, there was notime to lose. They had to beawayfromhere.Inablindingflash she visualized thesurrounding terrainandracedover to August. “Come on!”she said. August did notbudge. Salander picked himup in one swift movement,her face twisted in pain.Every movement hurt. Butthey had to get away andAugustmusthaveunderstood

that too because he wriggledout of her grasp. So shesprang over to the table,grabbed her computer andAugust’s coat, and made forthe terrace, past the man onthe floor who raised himselfgroggily and tried to catchholdofAugust’slegasheranalongsideher.Salanderconsideredkilling

him. Instead she kicked himhard in the throat and

stomach and threw away hisweapon.Then she ran acrossthe terrace with August anddowntowardsthesteeprockyslope. But suddenly shethought of the drawing. Shehadnotseenhowfar theboyhadgotwithit.Shouldshegoback? No, the others wouldbe here any moment. Theyhad to get away.But still…the drawing was also aweapon, and the cause of all

thismadness.SheleftAugustwithhercomputerontherockledge she had identified thenight before. She thenlaunched herself back up theslope and into the house andlooked on the table. At firstshecouldnotseeit.DrawingsofthatbastardWestmanwereeverywhere, and rows ofprimenumbers.But there – there it was,

and above the chess squares

and the mirrors there wasnow a pale figure with asharply defined scar on hisforehead, which Salander bynow recognized only toowell. It was the same manwhowaslyingonthefloorinfront of her, moaning. Shewhippedouthermobile,tooka photograph and sent it toBublanski and Modig. Shehad even scribbled a line atthe top of the paper. But a

second later she realized thatwasamistake.Theyweresurrounded.

Salander had sent the sameword to his Samsung as shehad to Berger: <CRISIS>. Ithardly left room formisunderstanding, notcoming from Salander.HoweverBlomkvistlookedatit,itcouldonlymeanthatshe

and August had beendiscovered,andatworst theywere under attack even now.He floored the accelerator ashe passed Stadsgårdskajenand emerged onto theVärmdöroad.He was driving a brand-

newAudiA8,withNeedhamsittingnext tohim.Needhamlooked grim, and every nowand then tapped somethinginto his mobile. Blomkvist

was not sure why he hadallowedhimtocomealong–maybehewanted todiscoverwhat the man had onSalander, or no, there wassomething else as well.Maybe Needham could evenbe useful. In any case hecould hardly make thesituation any worse. Thepolice had by now beenalerted, but he doubted theywouldabletoassembleaunit

quickly enough – especiallyas they were sceptical aboutthe lack of information.Berger had been the focalpoint, tryingtokeepthemallin contact with each other,andshewastheonlyonewhoknew theway.Heneededallthehelphecouldget.He was approaching

Danviksbron. Needham saidsomething, he did not hearwhat. His thoughts were

elsewhere. He thought ofZander–whathadtheydonetohim?Why thehell hadhenot come out for a beer?Blomkvist tried his numberagain. He tried callingSalander too. But nobodyanswered.“Do you want me to tell

you what we have on yourhacker?”Needhamsaid.“Yes…whynot?”

But they did not getanywhere this time either.Blomkvist’s mobile rang.Bublanski.“I hope you realize that

youandIaregoingtohavealottotalkaboutlater,andyoucancountontherebeinglegalconsequences.”“Ihearyou.”“ButfornowI’mcallingto

give you some information.We know that Lisbeth

Salander was alive at 4.22.Was that before or after shetextedyou?”“Before, itmusthavebeen

before.”“O.K.”“How can you be so

specificaboutthetime?”“She sent us something

extremely interesting. Adrawing. I have to say,Mikael, it exceeded ourhopes.”

“So she got the boy todraw.”“Oh yes. I have no idea

what technical issues mightariseintermsofadmissibilityof evidence, if any, or whatobjections a clever defencelawyermightraise.Butasfaras I’m concerned there’s nodoubt this is the murderer.It’sincrediblyvivid,withthatextraordinary mathematicalprecision again. In fact

there’s also an equationwritten at the bottom of thepage, I have no idea if it’srelevanttothecase.ButIsentthedrawingtoInterpol.Iftheman is anywhere in theirdatabase,he’stoast.”“Are you going to send it

tothepressaswell?”“We’redebatingthat.”“When will you be at the

scene?”

“As soon as possible …holdonasecond!”Blomkvist could hear

another telephone ringing inthe background, and for aminute or so Bublanski wasgone on another call. Whenhereturned,hesaidbriefly:“We’ve had reports of

gunfire out there. It doesn’tsoundgood.”Blomkvist took a deep

breath. “Any news on

Andrei?”hesaid.“We’ve traced his mobile

signal to a base station inGamla Stan, but no further.We’vehadnosignalatallforawhilenow,asifthemobilehas been smashed or juststoppedworking.”Blomkvist drove even

faster; fortunately the roadswere empty at that hour. Atfirst he said very little toNeedham,justabriefaccount

ofwhatwasgoingon,but inthe end he could not holdback. He needed somethingelsetothinkabout.“So what is it you think

you’vefoundout?”“About Wasp? For a long

time,zip.Wewereconvincedthatwe’d reached the end ofthe line,” Needham said.“We’dleftnostoneunturned,and still got nowhere. In awayitmadesense.”

“Howso?”“A hacker capable of a

breach like that should alsobe able to cover all tracks. Irealized pretty soon wewouldn’t get anywhere byconventional means. So Iskipped all the forensicbullshit andwent straight forthebigquestion:whohadthechops to pull this off? Thatquestion was our best hope.There’s hardly anyone out

there with that level ofability. In that sense, youcould say that the hacker’sskill worked against them.Plus, we had analysed therootkit itself, and that …”Needhamlookeddownathismobile.“Yes?”“It had artistic qualities.

Personalstyle,youmightsay.Now we just had to find itsauthor, and so we started to

send posts to the hackercommunity, and very soonthere was one name, onehandle, which came up timeafter time. Can you guesswhichone?”“Maybe.”“It was Wasp. Sure, there

were other names, butWaspstoodout.Iendeduphearingso much mythical bullshitabout this person that I wasdying to crack their identity,

and we went right back intime. We read every wordWasp had written online,studied every operation thathad Wasp’s signature on it.Soon we were certain thatWaspwas awoman, andweguessed that she wasSwedish.Severalof theearlyposts were written inSwedish,whichisn’tmuchtogo on.But since therewas aSwedish connection in the

organization she wastracking, and Frans BalderwasSwedish,itwasatleastagood place to start. I got intouchwith theN.D.R.E., andthey searched their records,andtheninfact…”“What?”“Theyhadabreakthrough.

Many years earlier they’dinvestigated a hackeroperation that used that veryhandle,Wasp. Itwas so long

ago that Wasp wasn’t yeteven particularly good atencryption.”“Whathappened?”“Wasp had been looking

fordataonindividualswho’ddefected from othercountries’ intelligenceservices,andthatwasenoughto trigger the N.D.R.E.’swarning system. Theirinvestigation led them to apsychiatricclinic forchildren

in Uppsala, to a computerbelonging to the headphysicianthere,amannamedTeleborian. Apparently he’ddone some work for theSwedish Security Police, sohe was above suspicion.Instead the N.D.R.E.concentratedonsomemental-health nurses who weretargetedbecausetheywere…well, to be blunt about it,immigrants. It was such a

stupid, blinkered strategy.Anyway,nothingcameofit.”“Icanimagine.”“So I asked a guy at the

N.D.R.E. tosendoverall theold material, and we siftedthrough it with a completelydifferentmindset.Youknow,youdon’thave tobebigandfatandshaveinthemorningstobeagoodhacker.I’vemettwelve-andthirteen-year-oldswho are crazy good. It was

obvioustomethatweshouldlook at every child in theclinicat the time. Ihad threeof my guys investigate eachone of them, inside and out,and do you know what wefound? One of the childrenwas the daughter of formerspy and arch-villainZalachenko,whowas knownto our colleagues at theC.I.A., and then everythinggot really interesting.Asyou

probably know, there aresome overlaps between thenetwork the hacker wasinvestigating andZalachenko’s old crimesyndicate.”“That doesn’t necessarily

mean it was Wasp whohackedyou.”“Of course not. But we

tookacloserlookatthisgirl,andwhat can I say? She hasan interesting background,

doesn’t she? A lot ofinformation about her in thepublic record has beenmysteriously deleted, but westill foundmore than enoughand… I don’t know, I maybewrong,butIgetthefeelingwe’re on the right track.Mikael, you don’t know shitabout me. But I know whatit’s like for a kid to seeextreme violence at closequarters. And I know what

it’s likewhensocietydoesn’tlift a finger to punish theguiltyparty.Ithurtslikehell,and I’m not at all surprisedthat most children whoexperience it go under. Theyturn into destructive bastardsthemselves.”“Yes,unfortunately.”“But justafewgrowtobe

as strong as bears, Mikael,and they stand up and fight

back.Waspwasoneofthose,wasn’tshe?”Blomkvist nodded

pensively and pressed downon the accelerator a littlemore.“They locked her up and

kept trying to break her. Butshekeptcomingback,anddoyouknowwhatIthink?”“No.”“She got stronger each

time. She became positively

lethal. She hasn’t forgotten asingle thing that happened.It’s all etched into her, isn’tit? And maybe that’s at thebottom of this wholegoddamnmess.”“What is it you want?”

Blomkvistsaidbluntly.“IwantwhatWaspwants.

I want to set some thingsright.”“Plusgetyourhandsonthe

hacker.”

“I want to meet her andgive her a piece ofmymindandplugeverylastdamnholeinoursecurity.ButaboveallIwanttogetmyownbackoncertain people who wouldn’tletme finishmy jobbecauseWasp exposed them. I havereason to believe you’regoingtohelpmewiththat.”“Whyso?”“Because you’re a fine

reporter. Fine reporters don’t

want dirty secrets to go onbeingdirtysecrets.”“AndWasp?”“Wasp is going to get a

chance to do her worst.You’regoingtohelpmewiththattoo.”“Orelse?”“Or else I’ll find awayof

putting her inside, andmaking her life hell again, Iswear.”

“But fornowall youwanttodoistalktoher?”“No fucker is going to be

allowed to hack into mysystem again, so I need tounderstand exactly how shedid it. Iwantyou togiveherthatmessage.I’mpreparedtolet your girlfriend go free ifshe’ll sit down with me andexplain.”“I’ll tell her. Let’s just

hope…”

“That she’s still alive,”Needham said. They turnedleft at high speed in thedirectionofIngaröstrand.

Itwas rare forHoltser to getthingssowrong.He had this romantic

delusion that you could tellfromadistance ifamanwaslikely to succeed in closecombat.Thatwaswhyhehad

not been surprised whenKira’sattemptedseductionofBlomkvist had failed. Orlovand Bogdanov had beencompletely confident. ButHoltser had had his doubtseventhoughhehadonlyseenthe journalist for one giddysecond in Saltsjöbaden.Blomkvist looked like aproblem. He looked like amanwhocouldnotbefooledorbrokensoeasily.

Withtheyoungerjournalistit was different. He lookedlike the archetypal weakling,yet nothing could have beenfurtherfromthetruth.Zanderhad resisted for longer thananyone Holtser had evertortured.Despiteexcruciatingpainhehad refused tobreak.His eyes shone with a grimdetermination which seemedbuttressed by a higherprinciple, and at one point

Holtser thought they wouldhave to give up, that Zanderwould rather endure anysufferingthantalk.ItwasnotuntilKira solemnlypromisedthat both Berger andBlomkvist from Millenniumwould be made to suffer aswellthatZanderfinallycavedin.By then itwas 3.30 in the

morning. Holtser knew thathe would always remember

the moment. Snow wasfalling on the skylights. Theyoung man’s face was driedout and hollow-eyed. Bloodhad splashed up from hischest and flecked his mouthand cheeks. His lips, whichfor a long time had beencoveredwith tape,were splitandoozing.Hewasawreck,butstillyoucouldtellthathewasabeautifulyoungman.

Holtser thought of Olga –how would she have feltabout him? Wasn’t thisjournalist just the kind ofeducated man she liked,someonewhofightsinjustice,takes the sideofbeggarsandoutcasts? He thought aboutthat,andaboutotherthingsinhis own life. After that hemade the sign of the cross,theRussian cross,whereoneway leads to heaven and the

other to hell, and then heglancedoveratKira.Shewaslovelierthanever.Hereyesburnedwithlight.

Shewassittingona stoolbythe bed wearing an elegantblue dress – which hadlargely escaped thebloodstains – and saidsomething in Swedish toZander, something whichsoundedsoftandtender.Thenshetookhimbythehand.He

grippedhersinreturn.Hehadnowhere else to turn forcomfort. The wind howledoutside in the alley. KiranoddedandsmiledatHoltser.Snowflakes fell on thewindowledge.

Afterwards they were sittingtogether in a Land Rover onthewayouttoIngarö.Holtserfeltempty,andwasnothappy

with the way things weregoing. But there was nogetting away from the factthat his ownmistake had ledthem there, sohe sat quietly,listening to Kira. She wasstrangely excited and spokewith searing hatred of thewoman they were about toconfront. Holtser did notthink itwasagoodsign,andif he could have broughthimself to do so he would

have urged her to turn backand get the hell out of thecountry.But he said nothing as the

snow fell and they drove onin the darkness. Kira’ssparkling, cold eyesfrightenedhim,buthepushedaway the thought. He had togive her credit at least – shehad been amazingly quick toputtwoandtwotogether.

Not only had she workedout who had hurtled in tosave the boy on Sveavägen.She had also guessed whowould know where the boyand the woman haddisappeared to, and thepersonshecameupwithwasnone other than MikaelBlomkvist.Theywerebaffledbyherreasoning.WhywouldareputableSwedishjournalistharbour a person who

appeared from nowhere andabductedachildfromacrimescene? But the more theyexamined the theory, themore it held together. Notonlydid thewoman–whosenamewasLisbethSalander–haveclosetiestothereporter,but something also happenedattheMillenniumoffices.After the murder in

Saltsjöbaden, Bogdanov hadhacked into Blomkvist’s

computer to try to find outwhy Balder had summonedhimtohishomeinthemiddleofthenight.Gettingaccesstohis email had been easyenough. But that had nowstopped. When was the lasttime it had been impossiblefor Bogdanov to readsomeone’s emails?Never, sofar as Holtser was aware.Blomkvist had suddenlybecomemuchmorecareful–

rightafterthewomanandtheboy disappeared fromSveavägen.That in itself was no

guarantee that the journalistknew where they now were.But as time went on therewere more indications thatthetheorymightberight,andinanycaseKiradidnotseemto need cast-iron evidence.She wanted to go forBlomkvist. Or, if not him,

then someone else at themagazine. More thananythingshewasobsessiveinher determination to trackdown the woman and thechild.Maybe Holtser could not

understand the subtleties ofKira’smotives.Butitwasforhis benefit that they weregoing to do away with theboy. Kira chose to takesignificant risks for Holtser,

andhewasgrateful,hereallywas, even thoughnow in thecarhefeltuneasy.He tried to draw strength

from thinking about Olga.Whateverhappened,shemustnot wake up and see adrawing of her father on allthe front pages. He tried toreassure himself that thehardestpartwasbehindthem.Assuming Zander had giventhem the right location, the

jobshouldbestraightforward.They were three heavilyarmed men, four if youcounted Bogdanov, whospentmostofthetimestaringathiscomputerasusual.The team consisted of

Holtser,Bogdanov,OrlovandDennis Wilton, a gangsterwho had been a member ofSvavelsjöM.C.butwhonowworked for Kira. Four menagainst onewomanwhowas

probablyasleep,andwasalsoprotecting a child. Itshouldn’tbeaproblem,notatall. But Kira was almostmanic:“Don’t underestimate

Salander!”She said it so many times

that even Bogdanov, whoalways agreed witheverything she said,began toget irritated. Of courseHoltserhad seenhow fit and

fast and fearless the womanhad been on Sveavägen. Butthe way Kira described her,she must be some kind ofsuperwoman. It wasridiculous.Holtser had nevermet a woman who couldremotely be amatch for him– or even for Orlov – incombat. Still, he promised tobe careful.First hewouldgoup and check out the terrainand prepare a strategy. They

would not be drawn into atrap. He stressed this manytimes over, and when finallytheyarrivedataninletnexttoa rocky slope and a jetty, hetook command. He told theothers to get ready in theshelter of the car while hewent ahead to identify thehouse.

Holtser likedearlymornings.He liked the silence and thefeelingoftransitionintheair.Nowhewas leaning forwardashewalked,andlistening.Itwas reassuringly dark – nolights were on. He left thejettybehindhimandcametoawoodenfencewitharicketygate, right next to anovergrown prickly bush. Heopenedthegateandstartedtoclimb up the steep wooden

steps holding the handrail onthe right, and soon he wasable to make out the houseabove.It lay hidden behind pine

treesandaspensandwasonlya dark outline,with a terraceon the south side. On theterraceweresomeglassdoorswhich they would have notrouble breaking through. Atfirst sight he saw no seriousdifficulty. He was moving

almost soundlessly and for amoment he consideredfinishing off the job himself.Maybe itwasevenhismoralresponsibility, and it shouldbe no more difficult thanother jobs he had done. Onthecontrary.There were no policemen

this time, no guards, nor anysign of an alarm system.True, he did not have hisassault rifle with him, but

thentherewasnoneedforit.The rifle was excessive, theresult of Kira’s heatedimagination. He had hispistol, his Remington, andthat was more than enough.Suddenly–withouthisusualcareful planning – he startedmoving along the side of thehouse, up to the terrace andtheglassdoors.Then he stiffened, without

at first knowing why – it

could have been a sound, amovement, a danger he hadonly half sensed. He lookedupat therectangularwindowabove him, but from hispositionhecouldnotseeintoit.Hekeptstill,nowlessandless sureofhimself.Could itbethewronghouse?He resolved to get closer

and peer in, and then … hewas transfixed in thedarkness. He was being

observed. Those eyes whichonce before had looked athimwerenowstaringglassilyin his direction. That waswhenheshouldhavereacted.He should have sprintedaround to the terrace, gonestraight in and shot the boy.But again he hesitated. Hecould not bring himself todrawhisweapon.Facedwiththatlook,hewaslost.

The boy let out a shrillscream which seemed to setthe window vibrating, andonly then did Holtser tearhimself out of his paralysisand race up onto the terrace.Without a moment’sreflection he hurtled straightthrough the glass doors andfired with what he thoughtwas great precision, but henever found out whether hehithistarget.

An explosive shadow-likefigurecameathimwithsuchspeedthathehardlyhadtimeto brace himself. He knewthathefiredanothershotandthat someone shot back. Inthe next instant he slammedonto the floor with his fullweight, a young womantumbling over him with arage in her eyes that wasbeyond anything he had everseen.Hereacted instinctively

and tried to shoot again. Butthe woman was like a wildanimal. She threw her headbackand…Crack!Whenhecametohehada

taste of blood in his mouthand his pullover was stickyandwet. Hemust have beenhit. Just then theboyand thewoman passed him, and hetriedtograbholdoftheboy’sleg. At least he thought he

did. But suddenly he wasgaspingforbreath.He no longer understood

what was going on. Exceptthat he was beaten, but bywhom? By a woman? Thatinsight became a part of hispain as he lay on the flooramidst glass and his ownblood, breathing heavily, hiseyesshut.Hehopeditwouldbe over soon. When heopenedhiseyesagainhewas

surprised to see the womanstill there. Had she not justleft?No,shewasstandingbythe table, he could see herthinboyish legs.He triedhisutmost to get up. He lookedfor his weapon, and at thesame time heard voicesthrough the broken window,andthenhemovedoncemoretoattackthewoman.But before he could do

anythingthewomanexploded

intomotion and stormedout.From the terrace she threwherself headlong into thetrees. Shots resounded in thedark and he muttered tohimself, “Kill the bastards.”But itwas all he coulddo toget to his feet and he cast adull glance at the table infrontofhim.There was a mass of

crayons and paper which helooked at without really

takingitallin.Thenitwasasifaclawhadtakenholdofhisheart.He saw an evil demonwith a pale face raising hishand tokill. It tooka secondor so for him to realize thatthe demon was himself, andheshuddered.Yet he could not take his

eyesofftheimage.Onlythendid he notice somethingscribbledatthetop:Mailedtopolice4.22.

CHAPTER27

24.xi,Morning

When Aram Barzani of theRapid Response Unit made

his way into GabriellaGrane’shouseat4.52hesawa largeman dressed in blackspreadeagled on the floornexttotheroundtable.He approached cautiously.

The house seemed to havebeen abandoned. But he wasnot taking any risks. Therewererecentreportsofafiercegunfight up at the house andhe could hear the excitedvoices of his colleagues

outside on the steep rockslope.“Here!” they shouted.

“Here!”Barzanididnotunderstand

whatwasgoingon,andforamoment he hesitated. Shouldhegotothem?Hedecidedtosee first what condition theman on the floor was in.There was broken glass andblood all around, and thetablewasstrewnwithtorn-up

pieces of paper and crushedcrayons. The man on theground was crossing himselffeebly. He was mumblingsomething.Probablyaprayer.It sounded Russian; Barzanicaught the word “Olga”. Hetold the man that a medicalteamwasonitsway.“They were sisters,” the

mansaidinEnglish.Butitsoundedsoconfused

that Barzani attached no

importance to it. Instead hesearched through the man’sclothes, made sure that hewasunarmed,andthoughthehadprobablybeenshotinthestomach. His pullover wassoaked in blood, and helooked alarmingly pale.Barzani asked what hadhappened. He got no reply,not at first. Then the mangasped out another strangesentence.

“Mysoulwascapturedinadrawing,” he said, andseemed to be about to loseconsciousness.Aram stayed for a few

minutes to watch him, butwhen he heard from theambulance crew he left theman and went down to therocky slope. He wanted todiscover what his colleagueshadbeenshoutingabout.Thesnow was still falling and it

was icy underfoot. Down bythe water voices could beheard and the soundofmorecarsarriving.Itwasstilldarkand hard to see and thereweremanyunevenrocksandstragglypines.Thelandscapewas dramatic and steep. Itcould not have been easy tofight in this terrain andBarzani was gripped withforeboding.Henoticedthatithadbecomestrangelyquiet.

Buthiscolleagueswerenotfar away behind anovergrown aspen. He feltafraid – unusual for him –when he saw them staringdown at the ground. Whathad they seen? Was theautisticboydead?He walked over slowly,

thinking about his ownboys,sixandninenow.Theywerecrazy about football – didnothing else, talked about

nothing else. Björn andAnders. He and Dilvan hadgiven them Swedish namesbecause they had thought itwouldmaketheirliveseasier.What kind of people comeout here to kill a child? Hewasgrippedbyasuddenfury.But in the next moment hebreathedasighofrelief.There was no boy there,

but two men lying on theground, apparently both shot

inthestomach.Oneofthem–a brutal-looking type withpockmarked skin and astubbyboxer’snose–triedtogetup,butwaseasilypusheddown again. His facebetrayed his humiliation andhis right hand was shakingwith pain or rage. The otherman, who was wearing aleatherjacketandhadhishairin a ponytail, seemed inworse shape.He lay still and

stared in shock at the darksky.“No sign of the child?”

Barzanisaid.“Nothing,” his colleague

KlasLangsaid.“Andthewoman?”“Nosign.”Barzaniwasnotsureifthis

wasgoodnewsandheaskedafewmorequestions.Butno-oneknewwhathadhappened.The only certainty was that

two automatic weapons,Barrett REC7s, had beenfound thirty or forty metresaway,closetothejetty.Theywere assumed to belong tothemen,butwhenaskedhowthey had ended up there, theman with the pockmarkedface spat out anincomprehensibleanswer.Barzani and his colleagues

spentthenextfifteenminutescombing the terrain.All they

could findwere further signsof combat. More and morepeoplebegantoarriveonthescene: ambulance crew,Detective Sergeant Modig,two or three crime scenetechnicians, a succession ofregular policemen and thejournalist Mikael Blomkvist,who was accompanied by amassive American with acrew cut who immediatelycommanded everyone’s

respect. At 5.25 they wereinformed that a witness waswaiting to be intervieweddown by the seashore andparking area. The manwanted to be addressed asK.G. He was actually calledKarl-GustavMatzon.He hadfairly recentlyboughtanew-buildon theothersideof thewater.AccordingtoLang,heneeded to be taken with a

pinch of salt: “The old boyhasaveryvividimagination.”

Modig and Holmberg werestanding in the parking area,trying tomakesenseofwhathadhappened.Thepicturesofar was fragmented and theywere hoping that the witnessK.G. Matzon would bring ameasure of clarity to thenight.

But when they saw himcoming towards them alongthe shoreline, that seemedless and less likely. K.G.Matzonwas resplendent in aTyrolean hat, green checkedtrousers and a red CanadaGoose jacket and he wassporting an absurd twirlymoustache.Helookedasifheweretryingtobefunny.“K.G. Matzon?” Modig

said.

“The very same,” he said,andwithoutanyprompting–maybe he realized that hiscredibility needed a boost –heexplainedthatheranTrueCrimes, a publishing housewhich produced books onnotablecrimes.“Excellent. But right now

we’d likea factualaccount–not some sales pitch for aforthcoming book,” Modigsaid, to be on the safe side.

Matzon said that, of course,heunderstood.He was after all a

“respectable person”.He hadwoken up at a ridiculoushour, he said, and lain therelistening to “the silence andthe calm”. But just before4.30 he heard somethingwhich he immediatelyrecognizedasapistolshot,sohe quickly got dressed andwentontohisterrace–which

had a view of the beach, therock promontory and theparkingareawheretheywerenowstanding.“Whatdidyousee?”“Nothing. It was eerily

quiet. Then the air exploded.It sounded as if a war hadbrokenout.”“Youheardmoreshots?”“There were cracks of

gunfire from the promontoryon the other side of the inlet

and I stared across, stunned,and then… did I mention Iwasabirdwatcher?”“No,youdidn’t.”“Well, it’s made my

eyesight very good, you see.I’vegoteagleeyes. I’musedtopinpointing tinydetails faroff,andI’msurethat’swhyInoticed a small dot on therock ledge up there, do yousee it?The edge of it sort of

cutsintotherockslopelikeapocket.”Modig looked up at the

slopeandnodded.“At first I couldn’t tell

what it was,” Matzoncontinued. “But then Irealized it was a child – aboy, I think. He was sittingup there in a crouch andtrembling, at least that’showit seemed to me, and then

suddenly … my God, I’llneverforgetit.”“What?”“Someone came racing

down from above, a woman,and she leaped into the airandlandedsoviolentlyontherockledgethatsheallbutfelloff it, and after that they satthere together, she and theboy, and just waited, andwaitedfor the inevitable,andthen…”

“Yes?”“Two men appeared

holdingassaultriflesandshotandshot,andasI’msureyoucan imagine, I just threwmyself to the ground. I wasscared I’d get hit. But Icouldn’t help looking up atthem all the same. You see,fromwhereIwastheboyandthe girl were clearly visible.Buttheywereinvisibletothemen standing at the top, at

least for the moment. It wasobvioustomethatitwasonlya matter of time before theywere discovered and therewas no escape. As soon asthey left the rock ledge themenwouldsee themandkillthem. It was a hopelesssituation.”“But we’ve found neither

the boy nor the woman upthere,”Modigsaid.

“That’s just it! The mengot closer and closer – theyonly needed to lean forwardto see the woman and thechild. In the end they couldprobably have heard thembreathing.Butthen…”“Yes?’“You’re not going to

believe this. That man fromthe Rapid Response Unitdefinitelydidn’t.”

“Well, go ahead and tellme, and we can worry laterabout whether it’sbelievable.”“When themenstopped to

listen, maybe they sensedthey were very close, thewomanleapedtoherfeetandshot them.Bang,bang!Thensherushedforwardandthrewtheir weapons away. It waslike an action film, and afterthat she ran, or rather rolled,

almost fell down the slopewith the boy to a B.M.W.standing here in the parkingarea.Justbeforetheygotintothecar Isawthat thewomanwas holding something – itlookedlikeacomputerbag.”“Didtheydriveawayinthe

B.M.W.?”“Ata fearful speed. Ihave

noideawheretheywent.”“Ofcoursenot.”“Butthat’snotall.”

“Whatdoyoumean?”“There was another car

there – a Range Rover, Ithink,black,anewmodel.”“And what happened to

thatone?”“I was busy ringing the

emergency services, but justas I was about to hang up Isawtwomorepeoplecomingdown from thewooden stepsoverthere,atallthinmanandawoman.Ididn’tgetagood

look at them from thatdistance. But I can still tellyou two things about thatwoman.”“Yes?”“Shewasa twelve-pointer,

andshewasangry.”“Twelve-pointer meaning

beautiful?”“Or at least glamorous,

classy. You could see it amile off. But boy was shefurious. Just before they got

into the Range Rover sheslapped the man, and theweird thing is: he hardlyreacted.He just nodded as ifhe thought he deserved it.Thenhegotbehindthewheelandtheyweregone.”Modig noted everything

down, realizing that she hadtogetoutanationwidesearchbulletin for both the RangeRover and the B.M.W.withoutdelay.

GabriellaGranewasdrinkinga cappuccino in her kitchenon Villagatan and thinkingthat she was holding ittogether, all thingsconsidered. But she wasprobablyinshock.HelenaKraftwantedtosee

her at 8.00 in the office atSäpo.Graneguessed thatshewouldn’t just get the sack.There would be judicialconsequences too, which

would pretty much ruin herprospects of finding anotherjob.Atthirty-three,hercareerwasover.And thatwasbynomeans

the worst of it. She hadknown that she was floutingthe law and had taken aconscious risk. But she haddone it because she believeditwasthebestwaytoprotectFrans Balder’s son. Now,after the shoot-out at her

summer place, no-oneseemed to know where theboywas.Hemightbeinjured,or even dead. Grane wasracked by the mostdevastating feelings of guilt:first the father and now theson.She got up and looked at

theclock.Itwas7.15andsheneeded to get going to giveherself time to clean out herdeskbefore themeetingwith

Kraft.Shemadeuphermindtobehavewithdignity,tonotmake any excuses or beg tobe allowed to stay. HerBlackphone rang, but shecouldn’t be bothered toanswer. Instead she put onher boots and her Prada coatand an extravagant red scarf.If she was going under, shemight just as well go with abit of panache. She stood infront of the hall mirror and

touched up her make-up,wryly giving herself thevictory sign, as Nixon hadwhen he resigned. Then herBlackphone rang again andthis time she answeredreluctantly. It wasCasales attheN.S.A.“I’vejustheard,”shesaid.Ofcourseshehad.“Howareyoufeeling?”“Whatdoyouthink?”

“Like the worst person inthewholeworld?”“Prettymuch.”“Who’ll never get another

job?”“Spoton,Alona.”“In that case, let me tell

you, you’ve nothing to beashamedof.Youdidtherightthing.”“Are you trying to be

funny?”

“Doesn’t seem like themomentforjokes,sweetheart.You have a mole on yourteam.”Gabriella took a deep

breath.“Whoisit?”“Nielsen.”Gabriella froze. “Do you

haveproof?”“Oh yes, I’ll send it all

overinafewminutes.”“Why would Nielsen

betrayus?”

“Iguesshedidn’tsee itasabetrayal.”“What on earth did he see

itasifnotbetrayal?”“Collaborating with Big

Brother maybe, doing hisdutyby the leadingnation inthe free world? What do Iknow?”“So he gave you

information.”“He helped us to help

ourselves, actually. He gave

us information about yourserver and your encryption.It’s not as outrageous as itsounds. Let’s face it, welisten in on everything fromtheneighbours’ gossip to theprime minister’s telephonecalls.”“But this time the

information was leaked astagefurther.”“In this case it seeped out

like we were a funnel. I

know, Gabriella, that youdidn’t exactly stick to therulebook. But I’m absolutelyconvinced that you were inthe right, and I’ll make surethatyoursuperiorsgettohearit. You could see that therewassomethingrotten inyourorganization, soyoucouldn’tact within it, yet you weredetermined not to shirk yourresponsibility.”“Butitwentwrong.”

“Sometimes things gowrong,nomatterhowcarefulyouare.”“Thanks, Alona, it’s nice

of you to say so. But ifanything has happened toAugust Balder, I will neverforgivemyself.”“Gabriella, theboyisO.K.

He’scruisingaround inacarsomewhere with MissSalander, in case someone’sstillchasingthem.”

Grane could not take it in.“Whatdoyoumean?”“That he’s unhurt, babe,

and that thanks to him hisfather’s murderer has beencaughtandidentified.”“You’re saying August is

alive?”“That’sright.”“Howdoyouknow?”“Let’s just say I have a

verywell-placedsource.”“Alona…”

“Yes?”“If what you say is true,

you’ve given me back mylife.”After hanging up, Grane

rang Kraft and insisted thatMårtenNielsen be present attheir meeting. Reluctantly,Kraftagreed.

It was 7.30 in the morningwhen Needham and

Blomkvist made their waydown the steps fromGrane’ssummerhouse to theAudi intheparkingareabythebeach.Snow lay over the landscapeand neither of them said aword.At5.30Blomkvisthadgot a text message fromSalander, as brisk and to thepointasever.

<August unhurt. We’ll keepour heads down a whilelonger.>

Again Salander had notmentioned her own state ofhealth. But it was anincrediblerelieftohearaboutthe boy. AfterwardsBlomkvist had beenquestioned at length byModig andHolmberg andhetoldthemeverydetailofwhatheandthemagazinehadbeendoingoverthepastfewdays.They were not friendly orwell disposed towards him,

yet he got the feeling thatsomehow they understood.Now, an hour later, he waswalkingpastthejetty.Uptheslope a deer scampered intothe forest. Blomkvist settledinto the driving seat andwaited for Needham, whocame loping along in hiswake. The American’s backwasgivinghimtrouble.On theway toBrunn they

found themselves in traffic.

For several minutes nothingmoved and Blomkvistthought of Zander, who wasconstantlyonhismind.Theyhad still not had any sign oflifefromhim.“Can you get something

noisy on the radio?”Needhamsaid.Blomkvisttunedinto107.1

andgotJamesBrownbeltingout what a sex machine hewas.

“Give me your phones,”Needhamsaid.He stacked them next to

thespeakersatthebackofthecar.He clearlymeant to talkabout something sensitive,and Blomkvist had nothingagainst that–hehadtowritehis story and needed all thefactshecouldget.Buthealsoknew better than most thatthere’snosuchthingasaleakwithout an agenda.Although

Blomkvist felt a certainaffinity with Needham andeven appreciated his grumpycharm, he did not trust himforonesecond.“Let’shearit,”hesaid.“You could put it this

way,” Needham began. “Weknow that in business andindustry there’s alwayssomeone taking advantage ofinsideinformation.”“Agreed.”

“For a while we wereprettymuchsparedthatintheworld of intelligence, for thesimple reason that weguarded different kinds ofsecrets. The dynamite waselsewhere. But since the endof theColdWar, all that haschanged. Surveillance ingeneral has become morewidespread. These days wecontrol huge amounts ofvaluablematerial.”

“And there are peopletaking advantageof this, yousay.”“Well, that’s basically the

whole point of it. Corporateespionage helps keepcompanies informed aboutthe strengths andweaknessesofthecompetition.It’sagreyarea.Somethingthatwasseenas criminal or unethicaldecades ago is now standardoperating procedure. We

haven’t been much better atthe N.S.A., in fact maybewe’reeven…”“Theworst?”“Just take it easy, let me

finish,” Needham said. “I’dsay we have a certain moralcode. But we’re a largeorganization with tens ofthousands of employees andinevitably there are rottenapples–evenoneortwoveryhighly placed rotten apples I

was thinking of handingyou.”“Out of the kindness of

your heart, of course,”Blomkvist said with a touchofsarcasm.“O.K.,maybe not entirely.

But listen. When seniormanagement at our placecrosses the line andgets intocriminal activities, what doyouthinkhappens?”“Nothingverynice.”

“As you know, there’s acorrupt unit at Solifon,headed up by a man calledZigmund Eckerwald, whosejob it is to find outwhat thecompeting tech companiesareupto.Theynotonlystealthe technology but also sellwhat they steal. That’s badfor Solifon and maybe evenforthewholeNasdaq.”“Andforyoutoo.”

“That’s right. It turns outthat our two most seniorexecutives in industrialespionage – their names areJacob Barclay and BrianAbbot – get help fromEckerwald and his gang. Inexchange the N.S.A. helpsEckerwald with large-scalecommunications monitoring.Solifon identifies where thebig innovations arehappening, and our idiots

pluck out the drawings andthetechnicaldetails.”“I assume the money this

brings in doesn’t always endupinthestatecoffers.”“It’s worse than that,

buddy. If you do this sort ofthingasastateemployee,youmake yourself veryvulnerable, especiallybecause Eckerwald and hisgang are also helping majorcriminals. To be fair, at first

they probably didn’t knowtheir clients were majorcriminals.”“But that’s what they

were?”“Damn right. And they

took advantage too. I couldonly dream of recruitinghackers at their level ofexpertise, and the veryessenceoftheirbusinessistoexploit information, so youcan imagine: once they

realizedwhatourguysat theN.S.A.wereupto,theyknewthey were sitting on agoldmine.”“Sotheywereinaposition

toblackmail.”“Talk about having the

upperhand.Ourguyshaven’tjust been stealing from largecorporations. They’ve alsoplundered small familybusinesses and soloentrepreneurs who are

struggling to survive. Itwouldn’t look too good ifeverythingcameout.So as aresult theN.S.A. is forced tohelp not just Eckerwald andSolifon, but also thecriminals.”“YoumeantheSpiders?”“You got it. Maybe for a

while everyone stays happy.It’s big business and themoney’srollingin.Butthenalittle genius pops up in the

middleoftheaction,acertainProfessor Balder, and he’sjust as good at ferretingaround as he is at doingeverything else. So he findsout about this scheme, or atleastpartofit.Thenofcourseeveryone’sscaredshitlessanddecidesthatsomethinghastobe done. I’m not entirelyclear on how these decisionsgot made. I’m guessing ourguys hoped legal threats

would be enough. But whenyou’reinbedwithabunchofcriminals … The Spiderspreferviolence, so theydrawourguysintotheplanatalatestage, just to bind them inevenmoretightly.”“Jesus.”“Iwouldneverhavegotten

to know any of this if wehadn’t been hacked,”Needhamsaid.

“Another reason to leavethehackerinpeace.”“WhichisexactlywhatI’m

going to do, so long as shetellsmehowshedidit.”“I don’t know how much

your promises areworth, butthere’s another thing I’vebeen wondering about,”Blomkvistsaid.“Shoot.”“Youmentioned twoguys,

Barclay and Abbot. Are you

sure it stops with them?Who’stheirboss?”“Ican’tgiveyouhisname

unfortunately.It’sclassified.”“IsupposeI’llhavetolive

withthat.”“Youwill,”Needham said

inflexibly. At that momentBlomkvistnoticed that trafficwasstartingtoflowagain.

CHAPTER28

24.xi,Afternoon

Professor Edelman wasstandinginthecarparkatthe

Karolinska Institutewondering what in heaven’sname he had let himself infor.Hewasembarkingonanarrangement which wouldmean his having to cancel awhole series of meetings,lecturesandconferences.Even so he felt strangely

elated.Hehadbeenentrancednotjustbytheboybutalsobythe young woman wholooked as if she had come

straight from a street brawl,but who drove a brand newB.M.W. and spoke withchilling authority. He hadbarelybeenawareofwhathewas doing when he said,“Yes, sure,why not?” to herquestions, although it wasobviously both foolish andrash. The only grain ofindependence he had shownwas to have declined alloffersofcompensation.

He was going to pay hisown travel and hotelexpenses, he said. He musthave felt guilty. But he wasmoved to take the boy underhis wing, his scientificcuriosity was piqued. Asavant who both drew withphotographic exactitude andcould perform prime-numberfactorization – howabsolutely riveting. To hisownsurpriseheevendecided

to skip the Nobel Prizedinner. The young womanhad made him take leavealtogetherofhissenses.

Hanna Balder was sitting inthe kitchen on Torsgatan,smoking. It felt as if shehaddone little else apart fromsitthere and puff away with aheavyfeelinginherstomach.She had been given an

unusual amount of support,butshehadalsobeengettingan unusual amount ofphysical abuse. LasseWestman could not handleheranxiety. Itdetractedfromhisownmartyrdom.Hewas always flying into

arageandyelling,“Can’tyouevenkeep track of your ownbrat?” Often he lashed outwith his fists or threw heracross the apartment like a

rag doll. Now he wouldprobably go crazy too – shehadspilledcoffeeallovertheDagens Nyheter culturesection, and Lasse wasalreadyworkedupbecauseofa theatre review in it whichhehadfoundtoosympathetictoactorshedidnotlike.“What the hell have you

done?”“I’m sorry,” she said

quickly.“I’llwipeitup.”

Shecould tell from thesetof hismouth that that wouldnot satisfy him, hewould hither before he even knew ithimself, and shewas sowellprepared forhis slap that shedidnotsayonewordorevenmove her head. She couldfeel the tears welling up andher heart pounding. Butactually that had nothing todo with the blow. Thatmorning she had received a

callwhichwas soperplexingthatshehardlyunderstood it:August had been found, haddisappeared again and was“probably” unharmed –“probably”.Itwasimpossiblefor Hanna to know if sheshould be more worried, orless.The hours had gone by

with no further news.Suddenly she got to her feet,no longercaringwhether she

would get another beating ornot. Shewent into the livingroomandheardLassepantingbehindher.August’sdrawingpaper was still lying on thefloor and an ambulance waswailing outside. She heardfootstepsinthestairwell.Wassomeone on their way here?Thedoorbellrang.“Don’t open. It’ll be some

bloody journalist,” Lassesnapped.

Hannadidnotwanttoopeneither. Still, she could notvery well ignore it, couldshe? Perhaps the policewanted to interview heragain, ormaybe,maybe theyhad more information now,goodnewsorbadnews.Asshewenttothedoorshe

thought of Frans. Sheremembered how he hadstoodtheresayingthathehadcome for August. She

rememberedhiseyesand thefactthathehadshavedoffhisbeard, and her own longingfor her old life, beforeLasseWestman – a time when thetelephone rang and the joboffers came flooding in, andfear hadnot yet set its clawsintoher.Sheopenedthedoorwith the safety chain on andat first she saw nothing; justtheliftdoor,andthereddish-brown walls. Then a shock

ran through her, and for amomentshecouldnotbelieveit. But it really was August!His hair was a tangled messand his clothes were filthy.He was wearing a pair oftrainersmuchtoobigforhim,andyet:helookedatherwiththe same serious,impenetrable expression asever. She would not haveexpected him to turn up onhis own, butwhen she undid

thesafetychainshestillgavea start.Next toAugust stooda cool young woman in aleather jacket, with scratchmarks on her face and earthin her hair, glaring down atthe floor. She had a largesuitcaseinherhand.“I’ve come to give you

back your son,” she saidwithoutlookingup.“OhmyGod,”Hannasaid.

“MyGod!”

That was all she managedtosay,andforafewsecondsshewas completely at a lossas she stood there in thedoorway.Then her shouldersbegan to shake. She sank toher knees and, forgetting thefact that August hated to behugged, she threw her armsaround himmurmuring, “Myboy, my boy …” until thetears came. The odd thingwas: August not only let her

do it, he also seemed on theverge of saying something –asifhehadlearnedtotalkontopofeverything.Butbeforehehadthechance,Lassewasstandingbehindher.“What the hell … Well,

look who’s here!” hegrowled, as if he wanted tocarryonwiththeirfight.But then he got a grip on

himself. Itwasan impressivepiece of acting, in a way. In

the space of a second hebegan to radiate thepresencewhich used to make womenswoon.“And we get the kid

delivered to our frontdoorstep,” he said to thewomanonthelanding.“Howconvenient.IsheO.K.?”“He’s O.K.,” the woman

said in a strange monotone,and without asking walked

into the apartment with thesuitcaseandhermuddyboots.“By all means, just come

righton in,”Lassesaid inanacidtone.“I’mheretohelpyoupack,

Lasse.”This was such a strange

reply that Hanna wasconvinced she had misheard,and Lasse did not seem tounderstand either. He just

stoodtherelookingstupid,hismouthwideopen.“Whatdidyousay?”“You’removingout.”“Is this some kind of

joke?”“Notatall.You’re leaving

this house now, right now,and you’re not cominganywhere near August everagain. You’ve seen him forthelasttime.”

“You must be off yourrocker!”“Actually I’m being

unusually generous. I wasplanning on throwing youdown the stairs there. But Ibrought a suitcase with me.Thought I’d let you packsomeshirtsandpants.”“What kind of a freak are

you?” Lasse shouted, bothbewildered and besidehimself with rage, and he

bore down on the womanwith the full weight of hishostility, and Hannawondered if hewas going totakeaswipeatheraswell.But something stopped

him. Maybe it was thewoman’seyes,orpossiblythemere fact that she did notreact like anyone else wouldhavedone.Insteadofbackingoff or looking frightened sheonly smiled at him, and took

a few crumpled pieces ofpaper from an inside pocketandhandedthemtoLasse.“If ever you and your

friend Roger should findyourselves missing August,you can always look at thisandremember,”shesaid.Lasse turned over the

papers, confused. Then hescreweduphisfaceinhorrorandHanna tookaquick lookherself. They were drawings

and the top one was of …Lasse. Lasse swinging hisfists and looking profoundlyevil. Later she would hardlybe able to explain it. It wasnot just that she understoodwhathadbeengoingonwhenAugust had been alone athomewith Lasse and Roger.She also saw her own lifemoreclearlyandsoberlythanshehadforyears.

Lasse had looked at herwith exactly that twisted,livid face hundreds of times,most recently a minute ago.Sheknewthiswassomethingno-oneshouldhavetoendure,neither she nor August, andsheshrankback.At least shethought she did, because thewoman looked at her with anew focus. Hanna eyed heruneasily. They seemed onsomeleveltounderstandeach

other.“Am I right, Hanna, he’s

gottogo?”thewomansaid.The question was

potentially lethal, and Hannalooked down at August’soversizeshoes.“Whatarethoseshoeshe’s

wearing?”“Mine.”“Why?”“We left in a hurry this

morning.”

“And what have you beendoing?”“Hiding.”“Idon’tunderstand…”she

began,butgotnofurther.Lasse grabbed hold of her

violently.“Whydon’tyoutellthis psychopath that the onlyonewho’sleavingisher?”heroared.Hanna cowered, but then

… It may have beensomething to do with the

expressiononLasse’sface,orthe sense of somethingimplacable in the youngwoman’sbearing.Butthen…Hanna heard herself say,“You’re leaving, Lasse! Anddon’tevercomeback!”It was as if someone else

were speaking in her place.And after that things movedquickly.Lasseraisedhishandto strike her, but no blowcame, not from him. The

young woman reacted withlightning speed, and hit himin the face two, three timeslike a trained boxer, fellinghimwithakicktotheleg.“Whatthehell!”wasallhe

wasabletosay.He crashed to the floor,

and the young woman stoodover him. As Hanna tookAugust into his bedroom sherealized for how long andhow desperately she had

wishedLasseWestmanoutofherlife.

Bublanski longed to seeRabbiGoldman.Healsolongedforsomeof

Modig’s orange chocolate,for his newDux bed and forspringtime. But right now itwashisjobtogetsomeorderinto this investigation. Itwastruethat,ononelevel,hewas

satisfied. August Balder wassaid to be unharmed and onhiswayhometohismother.Thanks to the boy himself

and to Lisbeth Salander hisfather’s killer had beenarrested, even though it wasnot yet established that hewouldsurvivehisinjuries.Hewas in intensive care atDanderyd hospital. He wascalledBorisLatvinovbuthadforsome timebeenusing the

name Jan Holtser. He was amajorandformerelitesoldierfromtheSovietarmy,andhisname had cropped up in thepast in several murderinvestigations, but he hadneverbeenconvicted.Hehadhis own business in thesecurity industry, and wasboth a Finnish and Russiancitizen, and a resident ofHelsinki; no doubt someone

had doctored his governmentrecords.The other two peoplewho

hadbeenfoundatthesummerhouse on Ingarö had beenidentified by theirfingerprints; Dennis Wilton,an old gangster fromSvavelsjöM.C.whohaddonetime for both aggravatedrobbery and grievous bodilyharm; andVladimir Orlov, aRussian with a criminal

record in Germany forprocuring, whose two wiveshad died in unexplainedcircumstances. None of themen had yet said a wordabout what happened, oraboutanythingatall.NordidBublanski hold out muchhope that thiswould change.Men like that tend to holdtheir peace in policeinterviews. But then thoseweretherulesofthegame.

What Bublanski wasunhappy about, though, wasthe feeling that these threemenwere nomore than footsoldiers and that there was aleadershipabove them linkedto the upper echelons ofsociety inbothRussiaand inthe U.S.A. He had noproblem with a journalistknowing more about hisinvestigation than he did. Inthatrespecthewasnotproud.

He just wanted to moveahead, and was grateful forall information, whatever itssource. But Blomkvist’sdiscerning approach to thecasehadpointeduptheirownshortcomings and remindedBublanski of the leak in theinvestigation and the dangersto which the boy had beenexposedbecauseofthem.Onthis score his anger wouldnever subside, and perhaps

that explains why he was soirritatedattheheadofSäpo’seager efforts to get hold ofhim – andKraftwas not theonly one. The I.T. people atthe National Criminal Policewere after him too, and sowere Chief ProsecutorRichard Ekström and aStanford professor by thename of Steven Warburtonfrom the MachineIntelligence Research

Institute who wanted to talkabout “a significant risk”, asAmandaFlodputit.That bothered Bublanski,

along with a thousand otherthings. And there wassomeone knocking at hisdoor. It was Modig, wholookedtiredandwaswearingno make-up, revealingsomethingdifferentaboutherface.

“All three prisoners arehaving surgery,” she said.“It’ll be a while before wecanquestionthemagain.”“Trytoquestionthem,you

mean.”“I did manage to have a

briefwordwithLatvinov.Hewas conscious for a whilebeforehisoperation.”“Didhesayanything?”“Justthathewantedtotalk

toapriest.”

“How come all lunaticsand murderers are religiousthesedays?”“While all sensible old

chief inspectors doubt theexistence of their God, youmean?”“Now,now.”“Latvinov also seemed

dejected, and that’s a goodsign, I think,” Modig said.“When I showed him thedrawing he just waved it

away with a resignedexpression.”“Sohedidn’ttrytoclaimit

wasafabrication?”“He just closed his eyes

and started to talk about hispriest.”“Haveyoudiscoveredwhat

this American professorwants, the one who keepscalling?”“What…?No…he’lltalk

onlytoyou.Ithinkit’sabout

Balder’sresearch.”“And Zander, the young

journalist?”“That’swhatIcametotalk

about.Itdoesn’tlookgood.”“Whatdoweknow?”“That he worked late and

was spotted disappearingdown past Katarinahissenaccompanied by a beautifulwoman with strawberry- ordark-blonde hair andexpensiveclothes.”

“I’dnotheardthat.”“Theywereseenbyaman

calledKenEklund,abakeratSkansen. He lives in theMillennium building.He saidtheylookedasiftheywereinlove,oratleastZanderdid.”“You think it could have

been some sort ofhoneytrap?”“It’spossible.”“And this woman, might

shebethesameonewhowas

seenatIngarö?”“We’re looking into that.

But I don’t like the idea thatthey seemed to be headingtowards Gamla Stan. Notonly because we picked upZander’s mobile phonesignals there. That revoltingspecimen Orlov, who justspits atmewhenever I try toquestion him, has anapartmentonMårtenTrotzigsgränd.”

“Havewebeenthere?”“Not yet. We’ve only just

discovered the address. Theapartment was registered inthe name of one of hiscompanies.”“Let’shopethere’snothing

unpleasant waiting for usthere.”

Westman was lying on thefloor in the entrance hall on

Torsgatan,wonderinghowhecouldbesoterrified.Shewasjust a chick, a pierced punkchickwhohardlycameup tohis chest. He should be ableto throw her out like somelittle rat. Yet he was as ifparalysed and it had nothingto do with the way the girlfought, he thought, still lesswiththefactthatherfootwasplanted on his stomach. Itwassomethingaboutherlook

or her whole being that hecould not put his finger on.For a few minutes he laythere like an idiot andlistened.“I’m just reminded,” she

said, “that there’s somethingreally wrong in my family.We seem to be capable ofprettymuch anything.Of themost unimaginable cruelties.It may be a genetic defect.Personally I’vegot this thing

against men who harmchildrenandwomen,andthatmakesmedangerous.WhenIsaw August’s drawings ofyou and your friendRoger, Iwanted to hurt you, badly.But I think August has beenthrough enough, so there’s aslight chance that you andyour friend might get offmorelightly.”“I’m—”Westmanbegan.

“Quiet,” she said. “Thisisn’t a negotiation; it’s noteven a conversation. I’m justsetting out the terms, that’sall. Legally there are noproblems. Frans was wiseenough to register theapartment in August’s name.But for the rest, this is howit’s going to be: you haveprecisely four minutes topackyourthingsandgetout.If you or Roger ever come

back here or contact Augustin any way, I’ll make yousuffer somuch thatyou’llbeincapable of doing anythingniceagain,fortherestofyourlives.Inthemeantime,I’llbepreparingtoreportyoutothepolicewith fulldetailsof theabuse you’ve subjectedAugust to.As youknow,wehavemore than the drawingsto go on. We havetestimonies from

psychologistsandexperts.I’llalso be contacting theevening papers to tell themthat I have material whichsubstantiates the image ofyou that emerged inconnection with your assaulton Renata Kapusinski.Remindme,Lasse,whatwasitthatyoudid?Bitehercheekthrough and kick her in thehead?”

“So you’re going to go tothepress.”“I’m going to go to the

press.I’mgoingtocauseyouand your friend everyconceivable disgrace. Butmaybe–I’msayingmaybe–you can hope to escape theworst of the humiliation solong as you’re never againseennearHannaandAugust,andifyouneveragainharmawoman.Asamatterof fact I

couldn’t give a shit aboutyou. Once you leave, and ifyou live like a shyand timidlittle monk, you may bealright.Ihavemydoubts–aswe all know, the rate of re-offendingforviolenceagainstwomen ishigh, andbasicallyyou’re a bastard, but with abit of luck, who knows …?Haveyougotit?”“I’ve got it,” he said,

hatinghimselfforsayingso.

He saw no way out, hecouldonlyagreeanddoashewas told, and so he got upand went into the bedroomand swiftly packed someclothes.Thenhetookhiscoatand his mobile and left. Hehadnowheretogo.He had never felt more

patheticinhislife.Outsideanunpleasant sleety rain lashedintohim.

Salanderheardthefrontdoorslam and footsteps recedingdown the stone stairs. Shelooked at August. He wasstanding still with his armsstraight down by his sides,staring at her intently. Thattroubled her. A moment agoshe had been in control ofthings, but now she wasuncertain, and what on earthwas the matter with HannaBalder?

Hanna seemed about toburst into tears, and August… on top of everything elsehe started shaking his headand muttering. Salander justwantedtogetoutofthere,butshestayed.Herworkwasnotyet complete. Out of herpocket she took two planetickets,ahotelvoucherandathick bundle of notes, bothkronorandeuros.

“I’d just like, from thebottomofmyheart—”Hannabegan.“Quiet,” Salander cut in.

“Here are some plane ticketsto Munich. Departure is at7.15 this evening so you’vegot to hurry. I’ve organizedtransport to take you directlyto SchlossElmau. It’s a nicehotel not far fromGarmisch-Partenkirchen. You’ll bestayinginalargeroomonthe

top floor, in the name ofMüller, and you’ll be thereforthreemonthstostartwith.I’ve been in touch withProfessor Edelman andexplained to him theimportance of absoluteconfidentiality. He’ll bemaking regular visits andseeing to it that August getsgoodcare.Edelmanwill alsoarrange for suitableschooling.”

“Areyouserious?”“I’m deadly serious. The

police now have August’sdrawingandthemurdererhasbeenarrested.But thepeoplebehind all this are still atlarge, and it’s impossible toknow what they might beplanning. You have to leavethis apartment at once. I’mbusywithafewother things,butI’vearrangedforadrivertotakeyoutoArlanda.He’sa

bitweird-looking,maybe,buthe’s O.K. You can call himPlague. Have you got allthat?”“Yes,but—”“Forget the buts. Just

listen: you mustn’t use yourcredit card or your ownmobile during the whole ofyour time away, Hanna. I’vefixedanencryptedmobileforyou, a Blackphone, in casethere’s an emergency. My

number is alreadyprogrammed in. I’ll pick upall the costs of the hotel.You’ll get a hundredthousand kronor in cash, forunforeseen expenses. Anyquestions?”“Itsoundscrazy.”“Nottome.”“But how can you afford

allthis?”“Icanaffordit.”

“How can we…?”Hannalooked completelybewildered,asifshewerenotsure what to believe. Thenshebegantocry.“How can we ever thank

you?”shestruggledtosay.“Thank?”Salanderrepeatedtheword

as if it were somethingincomprehensible. WhenHannacametowardsherwithoutstretchedarms shebacked

away,andwithhereyesfixedonthehallwayfloorshesaid:“Pull yourself together!

Get a grip on yourself andstop taking whatever it isyou’re on, pills or anythingelse. That’s how you canthankme.”“Iwill…”“Andifanyonegets it into

their head that August needsto be put in some home orinstitution,Iwantyoutofight

backashardandasruthlesslyas you can. Aim for theirweakestpoint.Beawarrior.”“Awarrior?”“Exactly.Don’t let anyone

…”Salander stopped herself.

They were not perhaps thegreatest words of farewell,but they would have to do.She turned and walkedtowards the front door. Shedidnotgetfar.Auguststarted

tomutteragain,andthistimetheycouldmakeoutwhattheboywassaying.“Notgo,notgo…”Salander had no good

answertothateither.Shejustsaid, “You’ll be O.K.” andthen added, as if talking toherself, “Thanks for thescream this morning.” Therewas silence for a moment,andSalanderwonderedifsheshould saymore.But instead

she turnedandslippedoutofthedoor.Hanna called after her, “I

can’ttellyouwhatthismeanstome!”But Salander heard

nothing. She was alreadyrunningdownthestepstohercar. When she reachedVästerbron, Blomkvist calledon the Redphone app to saythat the N.S.A. had trackedherdown.

”Tell themhi and that I’montheirtrackstoo,”shesaid.Then she drove to Roger

Winter’s house and scaredhim half to death. After thatshe drove back to her placeand set to work with theencryptedN.S.A.file,withoutcoming any closer to asolution.

Needham andBlomkvist hadworked a long day in thehotel room at the Grand.Needham had a fantasticstory for Blomkvist, whowould be able to write thescoop Millennium so badlyneeded, but his feeling ofunease did not abate. It wasnot just because Zander wasstill missing. There wassomething about Needhamthatdidnotaddup.Whyhad

heturnedupinthefirstplace,and why was he putting somuchenergyintohelpingouta small Swedish magazine,far from all the centres ofpowerintheU.S.?Blomkvisthad undertaken not todisclose the hacker breach,and had half promised to tryto persuade Salander to talkto Needham. But that hardlyseemedenough.

Needhambehaved as if hewas taking enormous risks.Thecurtainsweredrawnandtheirmobileswere lying at asafe distance. There was afeeling of paranoia in theroom. Confidentialdocuments were laid out onthe bed. Blomkvist waspermitted to read them, butnot to quote from or copythem. And every now andthenNeedhaminterruptedhis

account to discuss variousaspectsof theright toprotectjournalistic sources. He wasobsessively thorough aboutensuring that the leak couldnotbetracedbacktohim,andsometimes he listenednervouslyforfootstepsinthecorridor or looked outthrough a gap in the curtainsto check thatno-onewasouttherewatching thehotel, andyet … Blomkvist could not

help feeling that most of itwasplay-acting.Hebecamemoreandmore

convinced that Needhamknew exactly what he wasdoing and was not evenespecially worried aboutsomeone listening in. Itoccurred to Blomkvist thatNeedham was playing a partwhichhad thebackingofhissuperiors–maybehehimselfhadalsobeengivena role in

thisplaywhichhedidnotyetunderstand.Therefore he paid close

attention not just to whatNeedham said, but also towhat he did not, and heconsideredwhat hemight betrying to achieve by goingpublic. There wasundoubtedlyacertainamountof anger there. Some“bastards” in a departmentcalled Protection of Strategic

Technologies had preventedNeedham from nailing thehacker who had got into hissystem, just because theydidn’t want to be exposedwith their pants round theirankles, and that infuriatedhim, he said. Blomkvist hadnoreasonnot tobelievehim,still less to doubt thatNeedhamgenuinelydidwantto exterminate these people,

to“crushthem,grindthemtopulpundermyboots”.Therewereotheraspectsof

the storyhewasnotquite socomfortable with.Occasionally it felt as ifNeedhamwaswrestlingwithsomekindofself-censorship.Fromtime to timeBlomkvistwent down to the lobby justto think, or to call Berger orSalander. Berger alwaysanswered on the first ring

and, even though they wereboth enthusiastic about thestory,Zander’sdisappearancehauntedtheirconversations.Salanderdidnotpickupall

day, until eventually he gothold of her at 5.20. Shesounded distracted, andinformed him that the boywas now safe with hismother.“And how are you?” he

said.

“O.K.”“Nothurt?”“Nothingnewatleast.”Blomkvist took a deep

breath. “Have you hackedinto the N.S.A.’s intranet,Lisbeth?”“Have you been talking to

EdtheNed?”“Nocomment.”He would say nothing,

even to Salander. Theprotection of sources was

even more important to himthanloyaltytoher.“Ed isn’t so dumb after

all,”shesaid.“Soyouhave.”“Possibly.”Blomkvist felt the urge to

ask her what the hell shethought she was doing.Instead, as calmly as hecould,hesaid:“They’re prepared to let

youoffifyou’llagreetomeet

them and tell them how youdidit.”“Tell them from me that

I’montothemaswell.”“What’s that supposed to

mean?”“That I’ve got more than

theythink.”“O.K. But would you

considermeeting…”“Ed?”Howthehelldidsheknow,

Blomkvist thought.Needham

had wanted to be the one torevealhimselftoher.“Ed,”hesaid.“Acockybugger.”“Pretty cocky. But would

you consider meeting him ifwe provide guarantees thatyouwon’tbearrested?”“There are no such

guarantees.”“I could get in touch with

mysisterAnnikaandaskhertorepresentyou.”

“I’ve got better things todo,”shesaid,asifshedidnotwant to talk about it anymore. He could not stophimself from saying, “Thisstory we’re working on …I’m not sure I understand allofit.”“What’s the difficulty?”

Salandersaid.“First of all, I don’t

understand why Camilla hassurfacedafteralltheseyears.”

“I suppose she has justbeenbidinghertime.”“Howdoyoumean?”“She probably always

knew she would be back togetherrevengeforwhatIdidto her and Zala. But shewanted to wait until she hadbuiltupherstrengthoneverylevel. Nothing is moreimportant to Camilla than tobe strong, and I suppose shesuddenlysawanopportunity,

a chance to kill two birdswithonestone.Atleastthat’smyguess.Whydon’tyouaskher next time you have adrinktogether?”“Have you spoken to

Holger?”“I’vebeenbusy.”“And yet she failed. You

gotaway,thankGod.”“Imadeit.”“But aren’t you worried

thatshecouldbebackatany

moment?”“Ithasoccurredtome.”“O.K., good. And you do

know that Camilla and I didnothing more than walk ashort way downHornsgatan?”Salanderdidnotanswer.“Iknowyou,Mikael,”was

all she said. “And now thatyou’ve met Ed, I guess I’llhave to protect myself fromhimtoo.”

Blomkvist smiled tohimself.“Yes,” he said. “You’re

probablyright.Let’snottrusthim any more than weabsolutely have to. I don’twant to become his usefulidiot.”“Doesn’t sound like a role

foryou,Mikael.”“No, and that’s why I’d

love to know what you

discovered when youaccessedtheirintranet.”“A whole load of

compromisingshit.”“About Eckerwald and the

Spiders’ relationshipwith theN.S.A.?”“That and a bit more

besides.”“Whichyouwereplanning

totellmeabout.”“Imightdo, ifyoubehave

yourself,” she said with a

teasing tone, and that onlymadehimfeelhappy.Thenhechuckled,because

at that moment he realizedprecisely what Ed Needhamwastryingtodo.Ithithimsoforcefullythat

hehadahardtimekeepinguphis act when he returned tothe hotel room, and he wenton working with theAmerican until 10.00 thatnight.

CHAPTER29

25.xi,Morning

Vladimir Orlov’s apartmentonMårtenTrotzigsgrändwas

neat and tidy. The bed wasmade and the sheets wereclean. The laundry basket inthebathroomwasempty.Yetthere were signs thatsomething was not quiteright. Neighbours reportedthat some removal men hadbeen there, and a closeinspection revealedbloodstains on the floor andon the wall above theheadboard. The blood was

compared to traces of salivain Zander’s apartment and amatchconfirmed.But the men now in

custody – the two who werestill capable ofcommunicating – claimed tohave no knowledge ofbloodstains or of Zander, soBublanski and his teamconcentrated on gettingmoreinformation on the womanwhohadbeenseenwithhim.

By now the media hadpublished columns andcolumns not only about thedrama on Ingarö but alsoabout Andrei Zander’sdisappearance. Both eveningnewspapers and SvenskaMorgon-Posten and Metrohad carried prominentphotographsof the journalist,and there was alreadyspeculation that he mighthavebeenmurdered.Usually

that would jog people’smemoriesandpromptthemtoremember anythingsuspicious, but now it wasalmosttheexactopposite.Such witness accounts as

came in andwere thought tobe credible were peculiarlyvague, and everyone whocame forward – except forMikael Blomkvist and thebaker fromSkansen– took itupon themselves to remark

that theydidnot suppose thewoman guilty of any crime.She had apparently made anoverwhelmingly goodimpression on everyone whohad encountered her. Abartender called SörenKarlsten,whohad served thewoman and Zander inPapagallo on Götgatan, evenwentonandonboasting thathewas such a good judgeofcharacter and claimed to be

absolutely certain that thiswoman “would never hurt asoul”.“She was class

personified.”She was just about

everythingpersonified,ifoneweretobelievethewitnesses,and from what Bublanskicould see it would bevirtually impossible toproduce an identikit pictureof her. The witness accounts

all depicted her in differentterms, as if they wereprojecting their image of anidealwomanontoher,andsofar they had no photographsfrom any surveillancecamera. It was almostlaughable. Blomkvist saidthatthewomanwaswithoutashadow of doubt CamillaSalander, twin sister ofLisbeth. But go back in therecords for many years and

there was no trace of her. Itwas as if she had ceased toexist. If Camilla Salanderwere still alive, then it wasunderanewidentity.Bublanski especially did

notlikeitthattherehadbeentwounexplaineddeathsinthefoster family she had leftbehind. The policeinvestigations at the timewere deficient, full of loosethreads and question marks

which had never beenfollowedup.Bublanski had read the

reports, ashamed that out ofsome bizarre respect for thefamily’s tragedy hiscolleagueshadeven failed toget to the bottom of theglaringproblemthatboth thefather and the daughter hademptied their bank accountsjust before their deaths, orthat in theveryweek that he

had been found hanged thefather had started a letter toherwhichbegan:“Camilla, why is it so

important to you to destroymylife?”Thispersonwhoseemedto

have enchanted all thewitnesses was shrouded inominousdarkness.

It was now 8.00 in themorning and there were ahundred other thingsBublanski should have beenattending to, so he reactedwith both irritation and guiltwhen he heard that he had avisitor. She was a womanwhohadbeeninterviewedbyModig but who now insistedon meeting him. Afterwardshe wondered if he had beenespeciallyreceptivejustthen,

maybe because all he wasexpecting was furtherproblems. Thewoman in thedoorway had a regal bearingbut was not tall. She haddark,intenseeyeswhichgaveher a slightly melancholylook. She was dressed in agreycoatandareddressthatlookedabitlikeasari.“MynameisFarahSharif,”

she said. “I’m a professor ofcomputersciences,andIwas

a close friend of FransBalder.”“Yes, of course,”

Bublanski said, suddenlyembarrassed. “Take a seat,please.My apologies for themess.”“I’veseenmuchworse.”“Is that so?Well.Towhat

doIowethishonour?”“IwasfartoonaivewhenI

spoketoyourcolleague.”“Whydoyousaythat?”

“Because I have moreinformation now. I’ve had along conversation withProfessorWarburton.”“That’s right. He’s been

looking for me too. But it’sbeensochaoticIhaven’thadtimetocallhimback.”“Steven is a professor of

cyberneticsatStanfordandaleadingresearcherinthefieldof technological singularity.These days he works at the

Machine IntelligenceResearchInstitute,whoseaimis to ensure that ArtificialIntelligenceisapositivehelpto mankind rather than theopposite.”“Well, that sounds good,”

Bublanski said. He feltuncomfortable whenever thistopiccameup.“Steven lives somewhat in

aworldofhisown.Hefoundout what happened to Frans

only yesterday, and that’swhy he didn’t call sooner.But he told me that he hadspokentoFransasrecentlyasMonday.”“What did they talk

about?”“His research. You know,

Frans had been so secretiveever sincehewent off to theStates.Iwasclosetohim,butnot even I knew anythingabout what he was doing. I

wasarrogantenough to thinkI understood some of it atleast, but now it turns out Iwaswrong.”“Inwhatway?”“Frans had not only taken

his old A.I. program a stepfurther,hehadalsodevelopedfresh algorithms and newtopographical material forquantumcomputers.”“I’mnotsureIfollow.”

“Quantum computers arecomputers based on quantummechanics. They are manythousand times faster incertain areas thanconventional computers. Thegreatadvantagewithquantumcomputers is that thefundamental constituentquantum bits – qubits – cansuperpositionthemselves.”“You’ll have to take me

slowlythroughthat.”

“Notonlycantheytakethebinary positions one or zeroas do traditional computers,they can also be both zeroandoneat thesame time.Atpresent quantum computersaremuch too specializedandcumbersome. But Frans –howcanIbestexplainthistoyou?–wouldappear tohavefound ways to make themeasier,moreflexibleandself-learning. He was onto

something great – at leastpotentially. But as well asfeeling pride in hisbreakthrough, he was alsovery worried – and that wasobviously the reason hecalledStevenWarburton.”“Whywasheworried?”“In the long term, because

he suspected his creationcould become a threat to theworld, I imagine. But moreimmediately, because he

knew things about theN.S.A.”“Whatsortofthings?”“There’soneaspectIknow

nothing about. He hadsomehow stumbled upon themessier side of theirindustrial espionage. Butthere’s another aspect I dohave a lot of information on.It’s no secret that theorganization is working hardspecifically to develop

quantum computers. For theN.S.A. that would beparadise,pureandsimple.Aneffective quantum machinewould enable them to crackall encryptions, all digitalsecurity systems eventually,and after that no-one wouldbe safe from thatorganization’swatchfuleye.”“A hideous thought,”

Bublanski said withsurprisingfeeling.

“But there is actually aneven more frighteningscenario:weresuchathingtofall into the hands of majorcriminals,”FarahSharifsaid.“I see what you’re getting

at.”“So of course I’m keen to

know what you’ve managedto get hold of from the mennowunderarrest.”“Unfortunately nothing

likethat,”hesaid.“Butthese

men are not exactlyoutstandingintellects.Idoubtthey would even passsecondary-schoolmaths.”“So the real computer

geniusgotaway?”“I’m afraid so. He and a

female suspect havedisappeared without trace.Theyprobablyhaveanumberofidentities.”“Worrying.”

Bublanski nodded andgazed into Farah Sharif’sdark eyes, which lookedbeseechingly at him. Ahopeful thought stopped himfrom sinking back intodespair.“I’m not sure what it

means,”hesaid.“What?”“We’ve had I.T. guys go

through Balder’s computers.Given how security-

conscious he was, it wasn’teasy. You can imagine. Butwemanaged.We had a spotof luck, you might say, andwhat we soon realized wasthat one computermust havebeenstolen.“Isuspectedasmuch,”she

said.“Damnit!”“But wait, I haven’t

finished.We also understoodthat a number of machineshad been connected to each

other, and that occasionallythesehadbeenconnectedtoasupercomputerinTokyo.”“Thatsoundsfeasible.”“We can confirm that a

large file, or at leastsomething big, had recentlybeendeleted, andwehaven’tbeenabletorestoreit.”“Are you suggestingFrans

mighthavedestroyedhisownresearch?”

“I don’t want to jump toany conclusions. But itoccurred to me while youweretellingmeallthis.”“Don’t you think the

murderer might have deletedit?”“You mean that he first

copiedit,andthenremoveditfromhiscomputers?”“Yes.”“Ifindthathardtobelieve.

The man was only in the

house for a very shortwhile,hewouldneverhavehadtime–letalonetheability–todoanythinglikethat.”“O.K., that sounds

reassuring, despiteeverything,” Sharif saiddoubtfully.“It’sjustthat…”Bublanskiwaited.“I don’t think it fits with

Frans’ character. Would hereally destroy the greatestthing he’d ever done? That

would be like … I don’tknow … chopping off hisown arm, or even worse:killing a friend, destroying alife.”“Sometimes one has to

make a big sacrifice,”Bublanski said thoughtfully.“Destroywhatoneloves.”“Or else there’s a copy

somewhere.”“Or else there’s a copy

somewhere,” he repeated.

Suddenly he did somethingstrange: he reached out hishand.Farah Sharif did not

understand.Shelookedatthehandasifshewereexpectinghim to give her something.ButBublanskidecidednot tolethimselfbediscouraged.“Do you know what my

rabbi says?That themark ofa man is his contradictions.Wecan long to be away and

at home, both at the sametime. I never knewProfessorBalder, and he might havethoughtthatIwasjustanoldfool. But I do know onething: we can both love andfear ourwork, just asBalderseemstohavebothlovedandrunawayfromhisson.Tobealive,ProfessorSharif,meansnot being completelyconsistent.Itmeansventuringout in many directions all at

the same time, and Iwonderif your friend didn’t findhimself inthethroesofsomesort of upheaval. Maybe hereally did destroy his life’swork. Maybe he revealedhimself with all his inherentcontradictions towards theend, and became a truehumanbeinginthebestsenseoftheword.”“Doyouthinkso?”

“Wemayneverknow.Buthe had changed, hadn’t he?Thecustodyhearingdeclaredhim unfit to look after hisownson.Yet that’spreciselywhathedid,andheevengottheboytoblossomandbegintodraw.”“That’s true, Chief

Inspector.”“Call me Jan. People

sometimes even call meOfficerBubble.”

“Is that because you’re sobubbly?”“Ha, no, I don’t think so

somehow.ButIdoknowonethingforsure.”“Andwhat’sthat?”“Thatyou’re…”He got no further, but

neither did he need to. FarahSharif gave him a smilewhich in all its simplicityrestoredBublanski’sbelief inlifeandinGod.

At 8.00 Salander got out ofherbedonFiskargatan.Oncemoreshehadnotmanagedtogetmuch sleep, andnotonlybecause she had beenworking at the encryptedN.S.A. file without gettinganywhereatall.Shehadalsobeen listening out for thesound of footsteps on thestairsandeverynowandthenshecheckedheralarmandthe

surveillance camera on thelanding.She was no wiser than

anyoneelseastowhetherhersister had left the country.After her humiliation onIngarö, it was by no meansimpossible that Camilla waspreparing a new attack, witheven greater force. TheN.S.A. could also, at anymoment, march into theapartment. Salander was

under no illusions on eitherpoint. But this morning shedismissed all that. She wenttothebathroomwithresolutesteps and took off her top tocheck her bullet wound. Shethought it was finallybeginning to look better, andinamadmomentshedecidedto take herself off to theboxing club on Hornsgatanforasession.

To drive out pain withpain.

Afterwards she was sittingexhausted in the changingroom. She hardly had theenergy to think. Her mobilebuzzed. She ignored it. Shewent into the shower and letthewarmwatersprinkleoverher. Gradually her thoughtscleared, and August’s

drawing reappeared in hermind.But this time itwasn’tthe illustration of themurderer which caught herattention – it was somethingatthebottomofthepaper.Salander had only had a

very brief glimpse of thefinished work at the summerhouse on Ingarö; at the timeshe had been concentratingon sending it to BublanskiandModig.Ifshehadgivenit

any thought at all, then likeeveryoneelseshewouldhavebeen fascinated by thedetailed rendering. But nowher photographic memoryfocused on the equationAugust had written at thebottom of the page, and shestepped out of the showerdeep in thought. The onlything was, she could hardlyhear herself think. Obinze

was raising hell outside thechangingroom.“Shut up,” she shouted

back.“I’mthinking!”Butthatdidnothelpmuch.

Obinze was absolutelyfurious, and anyone otherthan Salander wouldunderstand why. Obinze hadbeen shocked at how weakand half-hearted her effort atthe punchbag was, and hadworried when she began to

hangherheadandgrimaceinpain. In the end he hadsurprisedherbyrushingoverand rolling up the sleeve ofher T-shirt, then to discoverthe bullet wound. He hadgone completely crazy, andevidently had not calmeddownevennow.“You’re an idiot, do you

know that? A lunatic!” heshouted.

She was too weak toanswer.Herstrengthdesertedhercompletely,andwhatshehad remembered from thedrawing now faded from hermind. She sank down on thebench in the changing roomnext to Jamila Achebe. Sheused to both box and sleepwith Jamila, usually in thatorder.Whentheyfoughttheirtoughest bouts it oftenseemed like one long, wild

foreplay.Ona fewoccasionstheirbehaviourintheshowerhad not been entirely decent.Neither of them set muchstorebyetiquette.“I actually agree with that

noisy bastard out there.You’re not quite right in thehead,”Jamilasaid.“Maybeso,”Salandersaid.“Thatwoundlooksnasty.”“It’shealing.”“Butyouneededtobox?”

“Apparently.”“Shall we go back to my

place?”Salander did not answer.

Her mobile was buzzingagaininherblackbag.Threetext messages with the samecontent from a withheldnumber.Asshereadthemsheballedupherfistsandlookedlethal.Jamilafeltthatitmightbe better to have sex withSalanderanotherdayinstead.

Blomkvisthadwokenat6.00withsomegreat ideas for thearticle,andonhiswayto theofficethedraftcametogetherin hismindwith no effort atall. He worked in deepconcentrationatthemagazineand barely noticed what wasgoing on around him,although sometimes hesurfaced with thoughts ofZander.

Herefusedtogiveuphope,buthefearedthatZanderhadgiven his life for the story,and he did what he could tohonour his colleague withevery sentence he wrote. Onone level he intended thereport to be a murder storyabout Frans and AugustBalder – an account of aneight-year-old autistic boywho seeshis father shot, andwho despite his disability

finds away of striking back.But on another levelBlomkvistwanted it tobeaninstructive narrative about anew world of surveillanceand espionage, where theboundaries between the legaland the criminal have beenerased. The words camepouring out, but still it wasnotwithoutitsdifficulties.Through an old police

contacthehadgotholdofthe

paperwork on the unsolvedmurder of Kajsa Falk, thegirlfriend of one of theleading figures in SvavelsjöM.C. The killer had neverbeen identified and none ofthe people questioned duringthe investigation had beenwillingtocontributeanythingof value, but Blomkvistnevertheless gathered that aviolent rifthad tornapart themotorcycle club and that

there was an insidious terroramongthegangmembersofa“Lady Zala”, as one of thewitnessesputit.Despite considerable

efforts, the police had notmanaged to discover who orwhat the name referred to.Buttherewasnottheslightestdoubt in Blomkvist’s mindthat “Lady Zala” wasCamilla, and that she wasbehindawholeseriesofother

crimes, both in Sweden andabroad.Butitwasnoteasytounearth any evidence, andthat exasperatedhim.For thetimebeing he referred to herin the article by hercodename,Thanos.Yet the biggest challenge

was not Camilla or hershadowy connections to theRussian Duma. WhatbotheredBlomkvistmostwasthatheknewNeedhamwould

never have come all thewayto Sweden and leaked top-secret information if hewerenotbentonhidingsomethingevenbigger.Needhamwasnofool,andheinturnknewthatBlomkvist was not stupideither. He had therefore nottried tomake any part of hisaccounttoopretty.Onthecontrary,hepainted

afairlydreadfulpictureoftheN.S.A. And yet … a closer

inspection of the informationtoldBlomkvistthat,allinall,Needham was describing anintelligence agency whichboth functioned well andbehaved reasonably decently,if you ignored the revoltingbunch of criminals in thedepartment known asProtection of StrategicTechnologies – the self-samedepartment, as it happens,which had prevented

Needham from nailing hishacker.The American must have

wanted todoseriousharmtoafewspecificcolleagues,butrather than sink thewholeofhisorganization,hepreferredto give it a softer landing inan already inevitable crash.So Blomkvist was notespecially surprised or angrywhenBergerappearedbehindhim and with a worried

expressionhandedhimaT.T.telegram.“Does this scupper our

story?”shesaid.Thetelegramread:

Two senior executives at theN.S.A., Jacob Barclay andBrian Abbot, have beenarrested on suspicion ofserious financial misconductand are on indefinite leaveawaitingtrial.“This is a blot on the

reputation of ourorganization and we have

spared no effort in tacklingthe issues and holding thoseguilty to account. Anyoneworking for theN.S.A.musthave the highest ethicalstandards andwe undertaketo be as transparent duringthe judicial process as wecan, while remainingsensitive to our nationalsecurity interests,” N.S.A.chief Admiral CharlesO’ConnorhastoldA.P.

The telegram did notcontainverymuchapartfromthelongquote;itsaidnothing

about Balder’s murder andnothing that could be linkedto the events in Stockholm.But Blomkvist understoodwhatBergermeant.Nowthatthe news was out, theWashingtonPostandtheNewYorkTimesandawholepackof serious Americanjournalistswould descend onthe story, and it would beimpossible to anticipatewhattheymightdigup.

“Not good,” he saidcalmly.“Butnotasurprise.”“Really?”“It’s part of the same

strategythatledtheN.S.A.toseek me out: damagelimitation.Theywant to takebacktheinitiative.”“Howdoyoumean?”“There’sareasonwhythey

leakedthistome.Icouldtellright away that there wassomethingoddabout it.Why

did Needham insist oncoming to talk tome here inStockholm,andat5.00inthemorning?”“So you think that what

he’s doing is sanctionedhigherup?”“Isuspectedit,butatfirstI

didn’tgetwhathewasdoing.I just felt thatsomethingwaswrong. Then I talked toSalander.”“Andthatclarifiedthings?”

“I realized that Needhamknewexactlywhatshe’ddugup during her hacker attack,and he had every reason tofear that I would learn allabout it. He wanted to limitthedamage.”“Even so, he hardly

presented you with a rosypicture.”“He knew I wouldn’t be

satisfied with anything toopretty. I suspect he gave me

justenoughtokeepmehappyand let me have my scoop,and to prevent me fromdigginganydeeper.”“He’s in for a

disappointmentthen.”“Let’satleasthopeso.But

I can’t see how to breakthrough. The N.S.A. is acloseddoor.”“Even for an old

bloodhound like MikaelBlomkvist?”

“Evenforhim.”

CHAPTER30

25.xi

The text message had said<Until next time, sister!> Salander

could not work out if it hadbeensent threetimesinerrororifitwasanabsurdattemptto be over-explicit. It madenodifferencenowanyway.Themessagewasevidently

from Camilla, but it addednothing to what Salanderalready knew. The events onIngaröhadonlydeepenedtheancient hatred – she wascertain Camilla would come

afterheragain,havinggotsoclose.It was not the wording of

the texts that had upsetSalander so much as thethoughts it had brought tomind, the memory of whatshe had seen on the steeprock slope in the earlymorning light when she andAugust had crouched on thenarrowledgeinfallingsnow,gunfire rattling above them.

Augusthadnotbeenwearinga jacket or shoes and wasshivering violently as thesecondswentbyandSalanderrealized how desperatelycompromised their situationwas. She had a child to takecare of and a pathetic pistolfor a weapon, while thebastards up there had assaultrifles. She had to take thembysurprise,otherwisesheandAugustwould be slaughtered

likelambs.Shelistenedtothemen’s footsteps and thedirection they were shootingin, even their breathing andtherustleoftheirclothes.But the strange thing was,

when she finally saw herchance,shehesitated.Crucialmoments went by as shebrokeasmalltwigintopieceson the rock ledge in front ofthem. Only then did shespring to her feet right in

front of the men and, takingadvantage of that briefmillisecond of surprise, shefired right away, two, threetimes. From experience sheknewthatmomentsliketheseburned an indelibleimpression on your mind, asif not only your body andmuscles are sharpened, butalsoyourperception.Every detail shone with a

strangeprecisionandshesaw

each ripple in the landscapeinfrontofher,asifthroughacamera zoom. She noted thesurpriseandfearinthemen’seyes, the wrinkles andirregularities in their facesandclothes,and theweaponswhich theywerewaving andfiringoffatrandom,narrowlymissingtheirtargets.But her strongest

impressiondidnotcomefromany of that. It came from a

silhouettefurtheruptheslopewhich she caught out of thecorner of her eye, notmenacing in itself, but itmade more of an impact onher than the men she hadshot. The silhouette was thatof her sister. Salanderwouldhave recognized her akilometre away, even thoughthey had not seen each otherfor years. The air itself waspoisonedbyherpresenceand

afterwards Salanderwondered if she should haveshothertoo.Camilla stood there a

moment too long. It wascareless of her to be out onthe rock slope in the firstplace, but presumably shecould not resist thetemptationofseeinghersisterbeing executed. Salanderrecalled how she halfsqueezedthetriggerandfelta

holyragebeatinginherchest.Yet she hesitated for a splitsecond,andthatwasenough.Camilla threw herself behinda rock and a scrawny figureappeared on the terrace andstarted shooting. Salanderjumped back onto the ledgeand tumbled down the slopewithAugust.Now, walking away from

the boxing club, thinkingbacktoitall,Salander’sbody

tightened in readiness for anew battle. It struck her thatperhaps she should not gohome at all, but leave thecountry for a while. Butsomething else drove herback to her desk; what shehadseeninhermind’seyeinthe shower, before readingCamilla’s texts, and whichwas now occupying herthoughts more and more.August’sequation:

Fromamathematicalpointof view, there was nothinguniqueorextraordinaryaboutit. But what was soremarkable was that Augusthad started with the randomnumbershehadgivenhimatIngarö and taken that furtherto develop a considerablybetter elliptic curve than the

one she herself had made.Whentheboyhadnotwantedtogo to sleep, shehad left itonthebedsidetable.Shehadnot got any answer then, noreven the slightest reaction,and she had gone to bedconvinced that Augustunderstood nothing aboutmathematical abstractions,that he was only a kind ofhuman calculator of prime-numberfactorizations.

But, my God … she hadbeen wrong. August hadstayedupinthenightnotjustdrawing; he had alsoperfected her ownmathematics. She did noteven take off her boots orleather jacket, she juststomped into her apartmentand opened the encryptedN.S.A. file along with herprogram for the ellipticcurves.

Then she rang HannaBalder.

Hanna had scarcely sleptbecause she had not broughtanyofherpillswithher.Yetthehotelanditssurroundingsstill cheered her. Thebreathtaking mountainsceneryremindedherofhowcramped her own existencehad become. Slowly she

began to unwind, and eventhe deep-seated fear in herbodywasbeginningtoletgo.But that could have beenwishfulthinking.Shealsofeltslightly at sea in suchextravagantsurroundings.There had been a time

when she would sail intorooms like thesewithperfectself-assurance: Look at me,here I come. Now she wastimid and trembling and had

difficulty eating anythingeven though the breakfastwaslavish.Augustsatbesideher,compulsivelywritingouthisseriesofnumbers,andhewas not eating either, but hedrank unbelievable volumesof freshly pressed orangejuice.Her new mobile rang,

startlingher.But ithad tobethe woman who had sentthem here. Nobody else had

the number, so far as sheknew, and no doubt she justwanted to know if they hadarrived safely. So Hannaanswered cheerfully andlaunched into an effusivedescriptionofhowwonderfuleverything at the hotel was.She was brusquelyinterrupted:“Whereareyou?”“We’rehavingbreakfast.”

“In thatcasestopnowandgo up to your room. AugustandIhaveworktodo.”“Work?”“I’m going to send over

someequationsIwanthimtotakealookat.Isthatclear?”“Idon’tunderstand.”“JustshowthemtoAugust,

and then callme and tellmewhathe’swritten.”“O.K.,” Hanna said,

nonplussed.

She grabbed a couple ofcroissants and a cinnamonbun andwalkedwithAugusttothelifts.

Itwas only at the outset thatAugusthelpedher.Butitwasenough. Later she would seehermistakesmoreclearlyandmake new improvements toher program. Deep inconcentration she worked on

for hour after hour, until theskydarkenedoutsideand thesnow began to fall again.Then suddenly – in one ofthose moments she wouldremember for ever –something strange happenedto the file. It fell apart. Ashock ran through her. Shepunchedtheair.She had found the secret

keys and cracked thedocument, and for a little

while she was so overcomeby this that she hardlymanaged to read. Then shebegan to examine thecontents, and her amazementgrew with every passingmoment. Could this even bepossible? It was moreexplosive than anything shehad imagined,and thereasonit had all been written downcould only have been thatsomeone believed theR.S.A.

algorithm was impenetrable.But here it was, black onwhite, all that filth and dirt.The text was full of internaljargon and strangeabbreviations and crypticreferences,butthatwasnotaproblem for Salander sinceshe was familiar with thesubject. She had got throughabout four-fifths of the textwhenthedoorbellrang.

She chose to ignore it,probably only the postman.But then she rememberedCamilla’s text message andchecked the camera on thelandingonhercomputer.Shestiffened.Itwas notCamilla but her

other bugbear, the one shehad almost forgotten witheverything else that wasgoingon.EdthefuckingNed.He looked nothing like his

pictures online, but he wasunmistakableallthesame.Helooked grumpy anddetermined, and Salander’sbrain started ticking. Howhad hemanaged to track herdown? What should she do?The best she could come upwith was to send the N.S.A.fileoff toBlomkviston theirP.G.P.link.Then she shut down her

computer and hauled herself

toherfeettoopenthedoor.

What had happened toBublanski?SonjaModigwasatalosstounderstandit.Thepained expression he hadbeenwearinginrecentweekshad vanished, as if blownaway. Now he smiled andhummed to himself. It’s truethat there was plenty to bepleased about. The murderer

had been caught. AugustBalder had survived despitetwo attempts on his life, andthe details of Frans Balder’sconflict and connection withtheresearchcompanySolifonwerebecomingclearer.But many questions

remained, and the Bublanskishe knew was not one torejoice without good reason.Hewasmoreinclinedtoself-doubt, even in moments of

triumph. She could notimagine what had got intohim. He walked around thecorridorsbeaming.Evennow,ashesatinhisofficereadingthe dull report on thequestioning of ZigmundEckerwald by the SanFranciscopolice, therewas asmileonhislips.“Sonja,mydear.Thereyou

are!”

She decided not tocomment on the unwontedenthusiasm of his greetingandwentstraighttothepoint.“JanHoltserisdead.”“Ohno.”“And with him went our

last hope of learning moreabouttheSpiders.”“Soyouthinkhewasabout

toopenup?”“There was a chance, at

least.”

“Whydoyousaythat?”“He broke down

completelywhenhisdaughtershowedup.”“I didn’t know. What

happened?”“He has a daughter called

Olga,” Modig said. “ShecamefromHelsinkiwhensheheardthatherfatherhadbeeninjured.Butwhen I talked toherandsheheardthathehad

tried tokill achild, shewentberserk.”“Inwhatway?”“Shestormedintohimand

said something incrediblyaggressiveinRussian.”“Could you understand

whatshewassaying?”“Something like he could

diealoneandshehatedhim.”“Soshelaidintohim.”“Yes, and afterwards she

told me that she would do

everything in her power tohelp us with theinvestigation.”“And how did Holtser

react?”“That’swhat Iwassaying.

For a moment I thought wehad him. He was totallydestroyed, had tears in hiseyes. I’m not really big onthat Catholic teaching whichsays that our moral worth isdetermined just before we

die. But it was almosttouching to see. This manwho had done so much evilwascrushed.”“Myrabbi—”“Please, Jan, don’t start

with your rabbi now.Letmego on. Holtser said what aterrible person he had been,soItoldhimthatheshouldasa Christian take theopportunity to confess, andtell us who he was working

for, and at that moment I’mconvincedhecameclose.Hehesitated and his eyes flittedfromsidetoside.ButinsteadofconfessinghebegantotalkaboutStalin.”“Stalin?”“About how Stalin didn’t

punish only the guilty butalso their children andgrandchildren and the entirefamily. I think hewas trying

to say that his boss was thesame.”“So he was worried about

hisdaughter.”“However much she may

have hated him, he was. Itriedtotellhimthatwecouldget the girl onto a witnessprotection programme, butHoltser had started to driftaway. He fell unconsciousanddiedanhourlater.”“Anythingelse?”

“Only that someone we’rebeginning to think may be asuperintelligence hasvanished and that we stillhave no trace of AndreiZander.”“Iknow,Iknow.”“We’ve at least made

progress on one front,”Modig said. “You rememberthe man identified byAmandaonAugust’sdrawingofthetrafficlight?”

“Theformeractor?”“That’s right, he’s called

Roger Winter. Amandainterviewed him forbackground information, tofind outwhether therewas arelationshipbetweenhimandtheboyorBalder,andIdon’tthink she expected to getmuch out of it. But Winterseemed to be badly shaken,andbeforeAmandahadevenbeguntoputpressureonhim

he confessed to a wholecatalogueofsins.”“Really?”“And we’re not talking

innocent stories. You know,Westman and Winter havebeen friends since they wereyoung men atRevolutionsteatern and theyused to get together to drinkin the afternoons at theapartment inTorsgatanwhenHannawasout.Augustwould

sitinthenextroomdoinghispuzzles, and neither of themenpaidhimmuchattention.Butononeoftheseoccasionsthe boy had been given athick maths book by hismother – it was clearly wayabove his level, but he stillleafed through it frantically,making excited noises.Lassebecame irritated and grabbedthe book from the boy andthrew it in the bin. It seems

August went completelycrazy. He had some sort offit, and Lasse kicked himseveraltimes.”“That’sappalling.”“That was just the

beginning. After that Augustbecameveryodd,Rogersaid.The boy took to glaring atthem with this weird look,andonedayRogerfoundthathis jeans jacket had been cutinto tiny pieces, and another

daysomeonehademptiedoutall the beer in the fridge andsmashed all the bottles ofspirits. It turned into somekind of trenchwarfare, and Isuspect thatRogerandLassein their alcoholic deliriumbegan to imagine all sorts ofstrange things about the boy,and even became scared ofhim. The psychologicalaspect of this isn’t easy tounderstand. Roger said it

made him feel like shit, andhe never talked about itwithLasse afterwards. He didn’twant to beat the boy.But hecouldn’t stop himself. It wasasifhegothisownchildhoodback,hesaid.”“What on earth did he

meanbythat?”“It’s not altogether clear.

ApparentlyRogerWinterhasa disabled younger brother.Throughout their childhood

Roger was a constantdisappointment, while histalented brother wasshowered with praise anddistinctions, and appreciatedineverypossibleway.Iguessthat bred some bitterness.Maybe Roger wassubconsciously getting hisown back on his brother. Orelse…”“Orelsewhat?”

“He put it in an odd way.He said it felt as if he weretrying to beat the shame outofhimself.”“That’ssick.”“Yes.Strangestthingofall

is the way he suddenlyconfessed everything. It wasalmost as if hewanted to bearrested.Amandasaidhewaslimping and had two blackeyes.”“Peculiar.”

“Isn’t it? But there’s oneother thing which surprisesmeevenmore,”Modigsaid.“Andwhat’sthat?”“That my boss, that

brooding old grouch, hasbecome a little ray ofsunshine.”Bublanski looked

embarrassed.“Soitshows.”“Itshows.”“Well,yes,”hestammered.

“It’s just that a woman has

agreed to comeout todinnerwithme.”“You haven’t gone and

falleninlove,haveyou?”“It’s just dinner,”

Bublanskisaid,blushing.

Needham did not enjoy it.But he knew the rules of thegame. Itwas like being backin Dorchester. Whatever youdid, you could not back

down. If Salander wanted toplayhardball,hewouldshowherhardball.Heglaredather.But it did not get him veryfar.She glared back and did

not say a word. It felt like aduel,andintheendNeedhamlooked away. This wholethingwasridiculous.Thegirlhad been unmasked andcrushed after all. He hadcracked her secret identity

and tracked her down, andsheshouldbegratefulthathewasn’t marching in with theMarinestoarresther.“You think you’re pretty

tough,don’tyou?”hesaid.“I don’t like surprise

visits.”“I don’t like people who

break into my system, sowe’re square. Maybe you’dlike to know how I foundyou?”

“Icouldn’tcareless.”“It was via your company

inGibraltar.NottoosmarttocallitWaspEnterprises.”“Apparentlynot.”“Forasmartgirl,youmake

alotofmistakes.”“For a clever boy, you

work for a pretty rotten set-up.”“You got me there. But

we’reanecessaryevil in thiswickedworld.”

“Especially with guys likeJonnyIngramaround.”Hewasnotexpecting that.

He really was not expectingthat. But he would not let itshow.“Youhavequiteasenseof

humour,”hesaid.“It’s hilarious, isn’t it? To

havepeoplemurderedand toworktogetherwithvillainsinthe Russian Duma makingmegabucks and saving your

own skin, that’s reallycomical,isn’tit?”shesaid.For a moment he could

barely breathe. He could nolonger keep up the pretence.Where the hell had she gotthat from?He felt dizzy.Butthen he realized – and thatslowedhispulsealittle–thatshe was bluffing. If hebelieved her even for oneseconditwasonlybecauseinhisworstmomentshetoohad

imagined that Ingram mightbe guilty of something likethat. But Needham knewbetter than anyone that therewas not a shred of evidenceofsuchathing.“Don’t try to bullshitme,”

hegrowled.“Ihavethesamematerial you do and a lotmorebesides.”“I wouldn’t be so sure of

that,Ed,unlessyou toohave

the private keys to Ingram’sR.S.A.algorithm?”Needhamlookedatherand

told himself that this couldnot be true. Surely she couldnot have cracked theencryption?Notevenhe,withall the resources and expertsathisdisposal,hadthoughtitwasevenworthtrying.But now she was

suggesting … No, it wasimpossible.Maybe shehad a

mole in Ingram’s innercircle? No, that was just asfar-fetched.“Thisishowitis,Ed,”she

said in a new authoritativetone. “You told Blomkvistthat you would leave me inpeace if I told you how Icarried out my data breach.It’spossibleyou’retellingthetruth there. It’s also possiblethatyou’re lying,or thatyouwon’t have any say in the

matteranyway.Youcouldgetthesack.Idon’tseeanycaseat all for trusting you or thepeopleyouworkfor.”Needham took a deep

breath.“Irespectyourattitude,”he

said. “But I’m a man of myword. Not because I’m aparticularly decent person.I’m a vengeful maniac, justlike you, young lady. But Iwouldn’t have survived as

long as I have if I let peopledown when it matters. Youcaneitherbelievethatornot.I swear toyou though, Iwillmake your life hell if youdon’topenup.”“You’re a tough guy,” she

said.“Butyou’realsoaproudbugger,aren’tyou?Youneedto make absolutely sure thatno-oneevergetswindofmybreach, whatever the cost.But as to that, I’m

ridiculously well prepared.Every detail of it would bemadepublicbeforeyouevenhave time toblink. Idon’t infact want to do it, but IwillhumiliateyouifIhaveto.”“You’refullofshit.”“I wouldn’t have survived

either if I was full of shit,”she said. “I hate this societywherewe’rewatchedoverallthe time. I’ve had enough ofBigBrotherandauthoritiesin

my life. But I’m prepared todo something for you, Ed. Ifyoucankeepyourtrapshut,Icangiveyouinformationthatwill put you in a strongerposition, and help you clearout the rotten apples in FortMeade. I’m not telling youanything about my breach –only because it’s amatter ofprinciple for me. But I canhelp you get your own backonthebastards.”

Ed stared at the strangewomaninfrontofhim.Thenhe did something whichwouldsurprisehimforalongtime.He burst out laughing. He

laugheduntilhecried.

CHAPTER31

2.xii–3.xii

Levin woke up in a goodmoodatHäringecastleaftera

long conference about thedigitalization of the media,which had ended with a bigparty where the champagneandhardliquorhadflowed.Afailure of a trade-unionrepresentative from theNorwegian newspaperKveldsbladet had remarkedspitefullythatSerner’sparties“grow more lavish the morepeopleyousack”,andmadeabitofscenewhichresultedin

Levingettingredwineonhistailor-made jacket. But hewas happy to let him havethat. Especially since it hadenabled him to get NatalieFoss up to his hotel room inthe small hours. Natalie wastwenty-seven and sexy ashell, anddespite the fact thathe was drunk Levin hadmanagedtohavesexwithherboth last night and thismorning.

Now it was already 9.00and his mobile was pingingand he had more of ahangover than was good forhim, bearing in mind all thethings he had to do. On theother hand he was achampion in this discipline.“Work hard, play hard” washismotto.AndNatalie,Jesus!– how many fifty-year-oldscould pull a bird like that?Butnowhehadtogetup.He

wasdizzyashelurchedtothebathroom for a pee. Then hecheckedhisshareportfolio.Itwas usually a good way tostart hungover mornings. Hepicked up his mobile andwentintoInternetbanking.Somethingmustbewrong,

some technical mishap hecould not understand. Hisportfolio had crashed, and ashe sat there, shaking andskimming through his assets,

he noticed somethingpeculiar.His largeholding inSolifon had as good asevaporated. He was besidehimself as he went into thestock-exchange sites and sawthe same headlineeverywhere:

THE N.S.A. ANDSOLIFON

CONTRACTEDFOR THE

MURDER OFPROFESSOR

FRANS BALDER.MILLENNIUMMAGAZINE

REVELATIONSSHOCK THE

WORLD.

What he did next isunclear. He probably yelledand swore and banged hisfistsonthetable.Hevaguely

remembered Natalie wakingup, asking what was goingon. But the only thing heknew for sure was that hekneeled for a long time overthetoiletbowl,vomitingasiftherewerenoendtoit.

Grane’s desk at Säpo hadbeentidied.Shewouldnotbecoming back. Now she satthereforalittlewhile,leaning

backinherchairandreadingMillennium. The first pagewas not what she hadexpected from a magazineserving up the scoop of thecentury.Itwasblack,elegant,sombre. There were nopictures.Atthetopitsaid:

IN MEMORY OFANDREI ZANDER

Andfurtherdown:

THE MURDER OFFRANS BALDERAND THE STORY

OF HOW THERUSSIAN MAFIAGOT TOGETHERWITH THE N.S.A.AND AMERICA’S

LEADINGTECHNOLOGY

COMPANY

Page two consisted of aclose-up of Zander. Eventhough Grane had never methim, shewasmoved. Zanderlooked beautiful and a littlevulnerable. His smile wassearching, tentative. Therewas something at onceintenseandunsureabouthim.In an accompanying textErika Berger wrote abouthow Zander’s parents hadbeen killed by a bomb in

Sarajevo.Shewenton to saythathehadlovedMillenniummagazine, the poet LeonardCohen and AntonioTabucchi’s novel PereiraMaintains.Hedreamedofthegreat love and the greatscoop. His favourite filmswere “Dark Eyes” by NikitaMikhalkov and “LoveActually” by Richard Curtis.Berger praised his report onStockholm’s homeless as a

piece of classic journalism.And even though Zanderhated people who offendedothers, he himself refused tospeakillofanyone.Thepiecewenton:

As I write this, my hands areshaking. Yesterday our friendand colleague Andrei Zanderwas found dead on a freighterin Hammarbyhamnen. He hadbeentortured,andhadsufferedterribly. I will live with thatpainfortherestofmylife.

ButIamalsoproudtohavehad the privilege of workingwith him. I have never metsuchadedicatedjournalistandgenuinelygoodperson.Andreiwas twenty-six years old. Heloved life and he lovedjournalism. He wanted toexpose injustices and help thevulnerable and displaced. Hewasmurderedbecausehetriedto protect a small boy calledAugust Balder and, as wereveal in this issue one of thebiggest scandals in moderntimes, we honour Andrei inevery sentence. In his report,

MikaelBlomkvistwrites:“Andreibelievedinlove.He

believedinabetterworldandamore just society. Hewas thebestofus.”

Thereportrantomorethanthirty pages of the magazineand was perhaps the bestpiece of journalistic proseGrane had ever read. Shesometimes had tears in hereyes, but still she smiledwhenshecametothewords:

Säpo’s star analyst GabriellaGrane demonstratedoutstandingciviccourage.

Thebasicstorywassimple.Agroupof individualsunderCommander Jonny Ingram –who ranked just below theN.S.A.head,AdmiralCharlesO’Connor, and had closecontacts with the WhiteHouse and Congress – hadbegun to exploit the vastnumbers of trade secrets in

the hands of his organizationfor their own gain. He hadbeen assisted by a group ofbusiness-intelligence analystsat Solifon’s researchdepartment“Y”.If the matter had stopped

there, it would have been ascandal which was in someway comprehensible.But thecourse of events followed itsown evil own logic when acriminal group – the Spiders

– entered the drama. MikaelBlomkvist had evidence toshowhow Jonny Ingramhadgot together with thenotorious Russian Dumamember Ivan Gribanov and“Thanos”, the mysteriousleader of the Spiders, toplunder tech companies ofideas and new technologyworth astronomical sums ofmoney, and to sell it all on.But they really plumbed the

depths of moral depravitywhen Professor Frans Balderpicked up their tracks and itwasdecidedtoeliminatehim.That was the mostastonishing part of the story.One of the most seniorexecutives at the N.S.A. hadknownthataleadingSwedishresearcher was going to bemurdered and did not lift afingertopreventit.

It was not the account ofthe political quagmire thatmost engaged Grane, butrather the human drama.There Blomkvist’s gifts as awriter were on full display.Sheshudderedatthecreepingrealization that we live in atwisted world whereeverything, both big andsmall, is subject tosurveillance, and whereanything worth money will

alwaysbeexploited.Justasshefinishedreading

shenoticedsomeonestandinginthedoorway.ItwasHelenaKraft, beautifully dressed asalways.Grane could not help

remembering how she hadsuspected Kraft of being theleak in the investigation.What she had taken to beguiltyshamehadbeenKraft’sregret at the unprofessional

way in which theinvestigation was beingconducted – at least that iswhatshehadbeentoldduringtheir long conversation afterMårtenNielsenconfessedandwasarrested.“I can’t begin to say how

sorry I am to see you go,”Kraftsaid.“Everythinghasitstime.”“Do you have any idea

whatyou’regoingtodo?”

“I’mmovingtoNewYork.I want to work in humanrights,and,asyouknow,I’vehadanofferonthetablefromtheU.N.forsometime.”“It’s a loss for us,

Gabriella. But you deserveit.”“So my betrayal’s been

forgiven?”“Not by all of us, I can

assure you. But I see it as asignofyourgoodcharacter.”

“Thanks, Helena. Will Isee you later at thePressklubben’s memorial forAndreiZander?”“I’m afraid I have to do a

presentation for thegovernment on this wholemess. But later this eveningI’ll raise a glass to youngZander, and to you,Gabriella.”

AlonaCasaleswassittingatadistance, contemplating thepanic with an inward smile.She observed AdmiralO’Connor crossing the floor,looking like a bulliedschoolboy rather than thehead of the world’s mostpowerful intelligenceorganization.But thenall thepowerfulfiguresattheN.S.A.were feeling put-upon andpathetic today, all of them

apartfromNeedham,thatis.Needham was not in a

goodmood either.Hewavedhis arms around and wassweaty and bilious. But heexudedallhisusualauthority.It was obvious that evenO’Connorwas afraidof him.Needham had come backfrom Stockholm with realdynamite, and had caused ahuge row and insisted on acomplete shake-up

throughout the organization.The head of the N.S.A. wasnot going to thank him forthat; he probably felt likesendingNeedhamtoSiberia–immediatelyandforever.But there was nothing he

coulddo.Helookedsmallashe approached Needham,who did not even bother toturn in his direction.Needhamignoredtheheadofthe N.S.A. in the same way

he ignored all the other poorbastards he had no time for,andplainlynothingimprovedfor O’Connor once theconversationgotgoing.ForthemostpartNeedham

seemed dismissive and, eventhoughCasalescouldnothearwhatwasgoingon,shecouldimaginewhatwasbeingsaid,orrather,whatwasnotbeingsaid. Over the course of herown long conversations with

Needham he refused to sayone word about the way hehad got hold of theinformation. He was not,evenonasinglepoint,goingto compromise, and sherespectedthat.Now he seemed

determined to exploit thesituation forall itwasworth,and Casales solemnly sworethat she would stand up forintegrity in the agency and

give Needham as muchbackingasshecouldifheraninto any problems. She alsoswore to herself that shewouldcallGabriellaGraneina final bid to ask her out, ifthe rumourwas true that shewasonherwayoverhere.

Needham was not in factdeliberately ignoring theN.S.A. head.But norwas he

going to interrupt what hewasdoing–yellingattwoofhis controllers – just becausethe admiral was standing athis desk. Only after about aminute did he address himand then in fact he saidsomething quite friendly, notto ingratiate himself orcompensate for hisnonchalance, but because hereallymeantit.

“Youdidagoodjobatthepressconference.”“Did I?” the admiral said.

“Itwashell.”“Well, you can thank me

then, for giving you time toprepare.”“Thank you? Are you

kidding? Every news sitearound the world is postingpictures of Ingram and metogether. I’m guilty byassociation.”

“In that case for Christ’ssakekeepyourownpeopleinlinefromnowon.”“Howdare you talk tome

likethat?”“I’lltalkhoweverthehellI

want.We’re in themiddleofa crisis and I’m responsiblefor security. I don’t get paidforbeingpolite.”“Watch what you say…”

O’Connorbegan.

But he was completelythrown when Needhamsuddenly stood up, big as abear,eithertostretchhisbackortoasserthisauthority.“I sent you to Sweden to

cleanallthisup,”theadmiralwent on. “Instead when youcame back everything was acompletedisaster.”“The disaster had already

happened,” Needham

snapped. “You know it aswellasIdo.”“Sohowdoyouexplainall

the shit that endedup in thatSwedishmagazine?”“I’ve explained it toyoua

thousandtimes.”“Right, your hacker.

Guesswork and bullshit iswhatIcallit.”Needham had promised to

keepWasp out of this mess,

and itwas a promise hewasgoingtokeep.“Top-quality bullshit in

that case, don’t you think?”he said. “That damn hacker,whoever he may be, musthave cracked Ingram’s filesand leaked them toMillennium. That’s bad, Iagree. But do you knowwhat’s worse?What’s worseis that we had the chance tocut thehacker’sballsoffand

putanendtotheleaking.Butthenwewereordered toshutdownour investigation.Let’snot pretend you went out ofyourway to stand up formethen.”“IsentyoutoStockholm.”“But you called off my

guys and our entireinvestigation came to agrindinghalt.Nowthe tracksare covered, and what goodwould it dous if it cameout

that some lousy little hackerhadtakenusforaride?”“Not a lot, probably. But

wecan stillmake trouble forMillennium and that reporterBlomström,believeyoume.”“It’s Blomkvist, actually.

Mikael Blomkvist. And bemy guest. You’d really dowell in the popularity stakesifyoumarchedinonSwedishterritory and arrested theworld’s most celebrated

journalist right now,”Needhamsaid.O’Connor muttered

something inaudible andstormedoff.Needham knew as well as

anyone that O’Connor wasfighting for political survivalandcouldnotafford tomakeany reckless moves. Hehimself was fed up withworking his fingers to thebone, and he loped over to

Casales to chat with herinstead.Hewas in themoodforsomethingirresponsible.“Let’s go get hammered

andforgetthiswholefuckingmess.”

HannaBalderwasstandinginher snow boots on the littlehill outside Hotel SchlossElmau. She gave August apushandwatchedhimwhizz

down the slope on the old-fashioned wooden tobogganthe hotel had lent them. Hecame to a stop near a brownbarn. Even though there wasaglimmerofsunshine,alightsnowwas falling. There washardly any wind. In the fardistance the mountain peakstouched the sky and wide-open spaces stretched outbeforeher.

Hannahadnever stayed insuch a wonderful place, andAugust was recovering well,not least thanks to CharlesEdelman’s efforts. But noneof it was easy. She feltterrible. Even here on theslope she had stopped twiceandfeltherchest.Withdrawalfrom her pills –benzodiazepines–wasworsethan she could haveimagined.Atnightshewould

lie in bed curled up like ashrimp and examine her lifein the most unsparing light,sometimes banging her fistagainst the wall and crying.She cursed Lasse Westman,andshecursedherself.And yet … there were

timeswhenshefeltstrangelypurified and occasionally shecame close to being happy.There were moments whenAugust was sitting with his

equations and his numberseries and he would evenanswerherquestions–albeitin monosyllables andsomewhatoddterms.The boy was still an

enigma toher.Sometimeshespoke in numbers, in highnumberstothepowerofevenhigher numbers, and seemedto think that she wouldunderstand. But somethinghad indeed changed, and she

would never forget how shehadseenAugustsittingatthedesk in their hotel room thatfirst day, writing out longwinding equations whichpoured from him withamazing fluency, and whichshephotographedandsentonto the woman in Stockholm.Late that evening a textmessage had come in on herBlackphone:

<Tell August we’ve crackedthe code!>Shehadneverseenherson

so happy and proud. Eventhough she could have noideawhatitwasallaboutandnever mentioned it, even toEdelman, it meant the worldto her. She began to feelproud too, immeasurablyproud.Shedevelopedapassionate

interest in savant syndrome,

and when Charles wasstayingatthehoteltheyoftensatup afterAugusthadgoneto bed and talked into thesmall hours about her son’sabilities, and abouteverythingelsetoo.Shewasnotsurethatithad

been such a good idea tojump into bed with Charles.Yet she was not sure it hadbeen a bad idea either.Charles reminded her of

Frans. They formed a littlefamily of sorts: she, August,Charles,CharlotteGreber,therather strict but kind teacher,and the Danishmathematician Jens Nyrupwho visited them. Theirwhole stay was a voyage ofdiscovery into her son’sremarkable universe. As shenow sauntered down thesnowyhillandAugustgotupfrom the toboggan, she felt,

for the first time inages, shewould become a bettermother, and she would sortoutherlife.

Blomkvist could notunderstandwhyhisbody feltsoheavy.Itwasasifheweretryingtomovethroughwater.And yet there was acommotion going on outthere, a victory celebration.

Nearly every newspaper,website, radio station andT.V. channel wanted tointerview him. He did notaccept any of the requests.When Millennium hadpublishedbignewsstories inthe past, he and Berger hadnot been sure whether othermediacompanieswouldlatchontothem.Theyhadneededtothinkstrategically,tomakesure they were syndicated in

the right places andsometimes even shared theirscoop.Nownoneof thatwasnecessary.The news broke with a

bang all by itself. WhenN.S.A. head CharlesO’ConnorandU.S.Secretaryof Commerce Stella Parkerappeared at a joint pressconference to apologizepublicly for what hadhappened, the last lingering

doubts about the story’scredibility were dispelled.Now a heated debate wasraging on editorial pagesaround the world about theconsequences andimplications of thedisclosures.But in spite of all the fuss

and the telephones whichneverstoppedringing,Bergerhaddecidedtoarrangealast-minute party at the office.

She felt they deserved toescape from all thehullaballoo for a little whileand raise a glass or two. Afirst print run of fiftythousand copies had soldoutthepreviousmorningandthenumber of hits on theirwebsite, which also had anEnglish version, had reachedseveral million. Offers ofbook contracts poured in,their subscription base was

growing by the minute andadvertisers were queuing uptobepartofitall.They had also bought out

Serner Media. Berger hadmanaged to push the dealthrough a few days earlier,though it had been anythingbut easy. Serner’srepresentatives had sensedherdesperationandtakenfulladvantage, and for a whileshe and Blomkvist had

thought that it would provebeyond them. Only at theeleventh hour, when asubstantial contribution cameinfromanunknowncompanyinGibraltar,bringinga smiletoBlomkvist’sface,hadtheybeen able to buy out theNorwegians. The price hadbeenoutrageouslyhigh,giventhesituation,butitwasstillaminor coupwhen a day laterthe magazine’s scoop was

published and the marketvalue of the Millenniumbrand rocketed. They werefree and independent again,though they had hardly hadtimeyettoenjoyit.Journalists and

photographers had evenhounded them duringZander’s memorial atPressklubben. Withoutexceptiontheyhadwantedtooffer congratulations, but

Blomkvist felt smothered,and his responses had notbeenasgraciousashewouldhave liked them to be. Thesleepless nights andheadaches continued toplaguehim.Now, in the late afternoon

of the following day, thefurniture in the office hadbeen hurriedly rearranged.Champagne, wine and beerand catered Japanese food

hadbeensetoutonthedesks.And people started to streamin, first the staff andfreelancers, thenanumberoffriends of the magazine,among them HolgerPalmgren.Mikaelhelpedhimout of the lift and the twoembraced.“Our girl made it,”

Palmgren said, with tears inhiseyes.

“She generally does,”Blomkvist replied with asmile. He installed Palmgrenin theplaceofhonouron thesofa and gave instructionsthat his glasswas to be keptfilled.It was good to see him

there. It was good to see allsorts of old and new friends.Gabriella Grane was theretoo, and Chief InspectorBublanski, who probably

shouldnothavebeeninvited,in view of their professionalrelationshipandMillennium’sstatus as independentwatchdog over the policeforce, but Blomkvist hadwanted him to be there.Officer Bubble spent thewhole evening talking toProfessorFarahSharif.Blomkvist drank a toast

with themand theothers.Hewas wearing jeans and his

bestjacket,and,unusuallyforhim, he had quite a lot todrink.Buthecouldnotshakeoffthatempty,leadenfeelingand that was because ofZanderofcourse.Andreiwasconstantly in his thoughts.The moment in the officewhen his colleague had sonearlytakenuphisofferofabeerwasetchedinhismind,amoment which was bothhumdrum and life-

determining.Memoriesoftheyoung man came to him allthe time, and Blomkvist haddifficulty concentrating onconversations.He had had enough of all

the praise and flattery – theonly tribute that did affecthim was Pernilla’s text: <you

do write for real, Pappa> – andoccasionally he glanced overtowards the door. NaturallyLisbeth Salander had been

invited,andwouldhavebeenthe guest of honour had sheturned up. Blomkvist hadwanted to thank her for thehandsome contribution tohelp close out the Sernerdispute.Buttherewasnosignofher.Whatdidheexpect?Her sensational decrypted

documenthadallowedhimtounravel the whole story, andhadevenpersuadedNeedhamand the head of Solifon,

Nicolas Grant, to give himmore details. But he hadheard from Salander onlyoncesincethen:whenhehadinterviewed her – to theextent that was possible –overtheRedphoneappaboutwhat had happened at thesummerhouseoutonIngarö.Thatwas aweek ago now

and Blomkvist had no ideawhat she thought of hisarticle.Maybeshewasangry

that he had dramatized it toomuch–hehadhadnochoicebut to fill in the blanksaround the meagre answersshegave.Orperhapsshewasfurious because he had notmentioned Camilla by namebuthadsimplyreferredtoherasaSwedish–RussianwomanknownasThanos.Orelseshewas disappointed that he hadnottakenaharderlineacrosstheboard.

Itwasimpossibletoknow.Thingswerenotimprovedbythefact thatChiefProsecutorEkström really did appear tobeconsideringacaseagainstSalander: unlawfuldeprivation of liberty andseizure of property were thecharges he was trying tocobbletogether.Eventually Blomkvist got

fedupwith italland left theparty without saying

goodbye. The weather wasawful and for lack ofanything better to do hescrolled through his textmessages. There werecongratulations and requestsforinterviewsandacoupleofindecent proposals. Butnothing from Salander. Heswitched off his mobile andtrudged home withsurprisingly heavy steps for

themanwho had just pulledoffthescoopofthecentury.

Salander was sitting inFiskargatan on her red sofa,gazing emptily out at GamlaStan and Riddarfjärden. Itwas a little over a year sinceshe had started the hunt forher sister and her father’scriminal legacy, and she had

to admit to her success onmanycounts.She had tracked down

CamillaanddealttheSpidersa serious blow. TheconnectionswithSolifon andtheN.S.A.hadbeen severed.Ivan Gribanov, the Dumamember, was coming undertremendous pressure inMoscow, Camilla’s hit manwas dead and her closesthenchman Jurij Bogdanov

and several other computerengineerswerewantedbythepolice and forced to gounderground. But Camillawas alive out theresomewhere. Nothing wasover. Salander had onlywinged her quarry and thatwas not enough. Grimly shelooked down at the coffeetable, where a packet ofcigarettes and her unreadcopy ofMillennium lay. She

picked up the magazine andput it down again. Then shepicked it up once more andread Blomkvist’s report.When she reached the lastsentence she stared for awhile at the new photographnext to his byline. Then shejumped to her feet and wentto the bathroom to put onsomemake-up.Shepulledona tight black T-shirt and a

leather jacket and went outintotheDecemberevening.She was freezing. It was

crazy to bewearing so little,but she did not care. She cutdown towards Mariatorgetwith quick steps, turned leftinto Swedenborgsgatan andwalked into a restaurantcalled Süd, where she satdownatthebarandalternatedbetween whisky and beer.Since much of the clientele

came from the world ofcultureandjournalism,itwashardly surprising that manyof them recognized her.Guitarist Johan Norberg, forexample,whowrotearegularcolumn for We and wasknown for picking up onsmall yet significant details,observed that Salander wasnotdrinkingasifsheenjoyedit,butratherasifitshehadtogetitoutoftheway.

There was something verydetermined about her bodylanguage, and a cognitivebehavioural therapist whohappened to be sitting at atable further in evenwondered if Salander wasaware of anyone else in therestaurant.Shehardly lookedoutovertheroomandseemedto be preparing herself forsome kind of operation oraction.

At 9.15 she paid in cashand stepped into the nightwithoutawordorgesture.

Despite the cold, Blomkvistwalkedhomeslowly,deep ingloom.A smile only crossedhis lips when he ran intosome of the regulars outsidetheBishopsArms.“Soyouweren’twashedup

after all!” Arne, or whatever

hisnamewas,bellowed.“Maybe not quite yet,”

Blomkvist said. For amomentheconsideredhavingalastbeerinsideandchattingwithAmir.But he felt too miserable.

Hewantedtobealone,sohecarried on the entrance doorof his building. On the wayupthestairshewasovercomeby a vague sense of unease,maybe as a result of all he

hadbeenthrough.Hetriedtodismissit,butitwouldnotgoaway, especially when herealized that a light hadblownonthetopfloor.Itwaspitchblackupthere.He slowed his steps and

sensed a movement. Therewasaflicker,aweaksliveroflightasiffromamobile,anda figure like aghost, a slightperson with dark flashing

eyes could be made outstandinginthestairwell.“Who’s that?” he said,

frightened.Then he saw it was

Salander.He brightened at first and

opened his arms, but shelookedfurious.Hereyeswererimmed with black and herbody seemed coiled, as ifpreparedforanattack.

“Areyouangrywithme?”hesaid.“Quite.”“Whyisthat?”Salander took a step

forward,herfaceshiningandpale, andhe rememberedhergunshotwound.“Because I come to visit,

and there’s no-one at home,”she said, and he walkedtowardsher.

“That’s a bit of a scandal,isn’tit?”hesaid.“I’dsayso.”“What if I ask you in

now?”“Then I suppose I’ll have

toaccept.”“Inthatcase,welcome,”he

said, and for the first time inages a broad smile spreadacrosshisface.A star fell outside in the

nightsky.

ALettertomyReaders

byDavidLagercrantz

Imissthoseearlyhours,fourin the morning, whenStockholmwassilentandmyfamily were still asleep: Iwoulddrinkmyespressoandsitdownatmycomputerand

write as if my life dependedonit.True, it wasn’t always

easy, but sometimes I evenmiss that feverish intensitywhich occasionally borderedon terror – the terror of notbeing worthy of StiegLarsson’slegacy.That concern was what

droveme,andit’ssafetosayit was Lisbeth Salander whoterrifiedmemost.Howcould

I portray such an iconiccharacter withoutdisappointing people? Iremember going in tooheavy-handed at first. It wasasifIwantedtoputtoomuchin, so I spent a great manyhours cutting and toningthingsdown.ThemainthingsI removed were emotions.Sentimentality andmelodramadon’tsuitLisbeth.

Herfeelingsshouldmerelybe glimpsed between thelines, and I realised she’s atherbestinaction,whenshe’sfighting as theunderdog. If Icould just find the rightscenes, she’d come to life.But there was still oneproblem that tookme a longtime to figure out: how doesLisbethSalanderremember?You know, it’s not just

Lisbeth’s personality that

makes her such an amazingcharacter.JustlikeBatmanorSuperman or any other greatsuperhero, she’s got her ownmythologywhich is acrucialelement of her explosiveforce. I realised early on Iwanted to show that anddevelop it.SoIneeded togoback to her childhood, whenher malevolent father,Alexander Zalachenko,abusedandrapedhermother,

and Lisbeth vowed to takerevenge. But I realised Iwould kill off some of themystique if I had her recallthose incidents herself. Thechain of events seemedstronger if they were seenfrom outside, with just hintsofherrageandpain.ItfeltlikeIneededafilter.

I also noticed that StiegLarsson had wrestled withthis issue himself: he almost

always has the old lawyerHolger Palmgren, Lisbeth’sformer guardian, recount herchildhood.Ofcourse,that’saclassic trick. Mythologisedgeniusfiguresinliteratureareoften best observed from acertain distance. You need aDrWatsontocreatethemythand maintain the mysteryaround its power. From theprotagonist’s point of view,most things are just logical

andself-evident,butwhenthesame process is observed bysomeone else, it helps usunderstand what’s soremarkable about it. It helpsus to feel amazed. I decidedto use the same devices asStieg Larsson. And yet Irefused to surrendercompletely.I carried on delving into

Lisbeth Salander’s thoughtsand memories, testing the

limits.It’snoexaggerationtosay thatwas the process thatenabled me to suss her outand then one evening, abrilliantly clear, marvellousevening, to discover her bigsecret.After that day it was as if

shewroteherself.Istartedtocomprehend why she had tostrikebackonceagain–hard,without pity. I realised howthestoryhadtocontinue,and

Imiss it already. I hope youenjoyreadingit!

DavidLagercrantz,Stockholm,15May,2015

TranslatedfromtheSwedishbyRuthUrbom

AUTHORANDTRANSLATORBIOGRAPHIES

©CarolineAndersson

David Lagercrantz is the sonof Olof Lagercrantz, aSwedish author and literarycritic, and MartinaLagercrantz. He studiedphilosophy and religion andattended the School ofJournalism in Gothenburg.Eventually he made it toExpressen, a national dailypaper, where he coveredsome major crime stories

including an infamous triplemurderinthecemeteryinthenorthern Swedish town ofÅmselein1988.Davidmadehisdebutasan

author in1997withUltimateHigh, the story of SwedishadventurerGöranKropp,whoclimbed Mount Everestwithout oxygen tanks orsherpastheweekafteroneofthemost tragicdisastersevertooccuronthemountain.The

bookbecameagreatsuccess,both in Sweden and abroad,and that success enabledDavid to continue as anauthor.Three years later A

Swedish Genius, David’sbiography of inventor HåkanLans, was published. It hassince been reprinted severaltimes and providedinspiration for the criticallyacclaimed documentary film

Patent 986. In 2005 Davidreturned his attention to theHimalayas with a thrillerentitled The Sky OverEverest.He continued with Fall of

ManinWilmslow,ahistoricalnovel about the Englishmathematician and code-breaker Alan Turing. Thisbook is often regarded asDavid’s breakthrough infiction. It received excellent

reviews and immediatelylanded on the bestseller lists,with rights sold topublishersinfifteencountries.Looking back over his

works,Davidsawapatterninhis writing: he often wroteabout major talents whorefuse to follow convention.Hewasinterestednotonlyinwhat it takes to stand outfrom the crowd, but also in

the resistance that suchcreativityinevitablyfaces.Meanwhile, the Swedish

publishing company AbbeBonnierwasinvolvedintalkswith Swedish football starZlatan Ibrahimović aboutpublishing an autobiography.Bonnier felt that this projectwould be a good match forDavid’s previous work.Zlatan and David met andagreed towork together.The

result was I am ZlatanIbrahimović, oneof themostsuccessful books in Swedeninmoderntimes.The book sold 500,000

copies in hardback in lessthan two months. Reviewshaileditasbothamasterpieceandafutureclassic.ThecriticDilsaDemirbag-Sten,writingin the daily broadsheetDagens Nyheter, noted thatthe book had done wonders

for the young readinggeneration, and she wasundoubtedlyright.I am Zlatan has

encouraged a newgenerationto read – one that hadpreviouslynotbeenaddressedby the publishing market.Kids from council estateswho used to think thatreadingwasthenerdiestthingin the world have devouredthebook.Todate,ithasbeen

published in over 30languages around the world,with millions of copies sold.It was shortlisted for theUK’s William Hill SportsBook of theYear award, themost highly regarded awardforsportswriting. InSwedenit was the first book of itskind to be nominated for theprestigious August Prize, aliterary award named afterAugustStrindberg.

In December 2013 DavidLagercrantzsignedacontractto write a new instalment inLarsson’s Millennium series,the global publishingphenomenon featuringLisbeth Salander andMikaelBlomkvist. The fourth bookintheseries–TheGirlintheSpider’s Web – is launchedworldwide on August 27,2015.

David is married to AnneLagercrantz, head of newsand current affairs on theSwedishPublicRadio.HehasthreechildrenandlivesintheSödermalmneighbourhoodofStockholm.

Translator George Gouldingwas born in Stockholm,educated in England andspenthislegalcareerworkingforaLondon-basedlawfirm.

Since his retirement in 2011hehasworkedasa translatorofSwedishfiction.

AUTHOR’SACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My sincere thanks to myagent Magdalena Hedlund,Stieg Larsson’s father andbrother Erland and JoakimLarsson, my Swedishpublishers Eva Gedin andSusannaRomanus,myeditorIngemarKarlsson, andLinda

Altrov Berg and CatherineMörkatNorstedt’sAgency.IalsoowethankstoDavid

Jacoby, senior securityresearcher atKaspersky Lab,and Andreas Strömbergsson,Professor of Mathematics atUppsala University, as wellas to Fredrik Laurin, digger-in-chief at Ekot, MikaelLagström, V.P. services atOutpost 24, the authorsDaniel Goldberg and Linus

Larsson, and MenachemHarari.AndofcoursetomyAnne.

*Anabilitytorecallimages,soundsorobjects in memory after only a fewinstantsofexposure.

ALSOAVAILABLE

StiegLarsson

THEGIRLWITHTHEDRAGON

TATTOO

TranslatedfromtheSwedishbyRegKeeland

LisbethSalandergetsundertheskinofhertargetslikeno-

oneelse.Thosewhounderestimateherlivetoregretit.Iftheyare

lucky…

MikaelBlomkvist–disgracedjournalist,womanizer–is

everythingsheoughttohate.Butwhensheishiredbyasecurityfirmtoinvestigatehim,herreportonhisliferevealsanintegritythat

fascinatesher.

ThenshediscoversthatBlomkvist,himselfabrilliantinvestigator,iscrackingopenthecoldcaseofamissinggirl–uncoveringsecretsthathavepoisonedafamilythroughgenerations.

AndonlyonethinggivesSalandergreatersatisfactionthanexposingaliar:stopping

akiller.

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StiegLarsson

THEGIRLWHOPLAYEDWITHFIRE

TranslatedfromtheSwedishbyRegKeeland

LisbethSalander–thegirlwiththedragontattoo–canbeviciouslyviolent.Mikael

Blomkvistknowsit,andoweshislifetoit.

WhenacriminologistandajournalistwhoworkswithBlomkvistatMillenniummagazinearekilledonthebrinkofpublishingabrutalexposéofhumantrafficking,theevidencepointsinone

direction.

Salander’sprintsareonthemurderweapon.But

BlomkvistknowsLisbethwouldneveractwithoutreason,andhecannotfind

onehere.

Thevictimswerehisfriends.ButsoisSalander.Andsomethingmuchmore

dangerousissurelyatplay…

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THEGIRLWHOKICKEDTHE

HORNETS’NEST

TranslatedfromtheSwedishbyRegKeeland

LisbethSalanderisathreattonationalsecurity.Sinceshe

wasthirteen,shadygovernmentforceshaveacted

tokeepherquiet.

Pronetoviolence,deemedmentallydisturbed,shehashadherfreedomremovedandhereverymovementwatched.

Yetstill,sheisanunstoppableforceforjustice.

Salanderhasabulletinherhead.Sheiswantedfor

murder.Sheknowsthatthesecretsandcorruptionatthe

heartofhercountry’sgovernmentgorighttothe

top.

Andshewillnottakeitlyingdown…

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