Friday, 1.vii – Sunday, 10.vii Two weeks before the trial of Lisbeth Salander began, Malm finished the layout of the 352-page book tersely entitled The Section. The cover was blue with yellow type. Malm had positioned seven postage-stamp-sized black-and-white images of Swedish Prime Ministers along the bottom. Over the top of them hovered a photograph of Zalachenko. He had used Zalachenko’s passport photograph as an illustration, increasing the contrast so that only the darkest areas stood out like a shadow across the whole cover. It was not a particularly sophisticated design, but it was effective. Blomkvist, Cortez and Eriksson were named as the authors. It was 5.00 in the morning and he had been working all night. He felt slightly sick and had badly wanted to go home and sleep. Eriksson had sat up with him doing final corrections page by page as Malm O.K.’d them and printed them out. By now she was asleep on the sofa. Malm put the entire text plus illustrations into a folder. He started up the Toast program and burned two C.D.s. One he put in the safe. The other was collected by a sleepy Blomkvist just before 7.00. “Go and get some rest,” Blomkvist said. “I’m on my way.” They left Eriksson asleep and turned on the door alarm. Cortez would be in at 8.00 to take over. Blomkvist walked to Lundagatan, where he again borrowed Salander’s abandoned Honda without permission. He drove to Hallvigs Reklam, the printers near the railway tracks in Morgong?va, west of Uppsala. This was a job he would not entrust to the post. He drove slowly, refusing to acknowledge the stress he felt, and then waited until the printers had checked that they could read the C.D. He made sure that the book would indeed be ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. The problem was not the printing but the binding, which could take time. But Jan K?bin, Hallvigs’ manager, promised to deliver at least five hundred copies of the first printing of ten thousand by that day. The book would be a trade paperback. Finally, Blomkvist made sure that everyone understood the need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had printed Blomkvist’s book about Hans-Erik Wennerstr?m under very similar circumstances. They knew that books from this peculiar publisher Millennium always promised something extra. Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry. He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his apartment to pack a change of clothes and a wash bag. He drove on to Stavsn?s wharf in V?rmd?, where he parked the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn. It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air and drank a Raml?sa. As always when a job was finished and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt empty. He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water pipes and changing the bedclothes up in the sleeping loft. He went to the grocery and bought everything he would need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and not thinking about anything in particular. Just before 5.00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and met Figuerola. “I thought you said you couldn’t take time off,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “That’s what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I’ve been working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I’m starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to recharge my batteries.” “In Sandhamn?” “I didn’t tell him where I was going,” she said with a smile. Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist’s 25-square-metre cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom and the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as they watched the parade of sailing boats on their way to or from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine. “It’s a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?” Figuerola said. “Just the important ones.” “Has Erika Berger been here?” “Many times.” “And Salander?” “She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerstr?m. And we spent Christmas here two years ago.” “So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?” “Erika is my best friend. We’ve been friends for twenty-five years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She’s certainly unique, and she the most antisocial person I’ve ever known. You could say that she made a big impression on me when we first met. I like her. She’s a friend.” “You don’t feel sorry for her?” “No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that’s happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy and solidarity with her.” “But you aren’t in love either with her or with Berger?” He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a motorboat on the way to the marina. “If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I’m in love with several people,” Blomkvist said. “And now with me?” Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him. “Does it bother you?” “That you’ve brought other women here? No. But it does bother me that I don’t really know what’s happening between us. And I don’t think I can have a relationship with a man who screws around whenever he feels like it …” “I’m not going to apologize for the way I’ve led my life.” “And I guess that in some way I’m falling for you because you are who you are. It’s easy to sleep with you because there’s no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn’t happen very often, and I hadn’t planned it. And now we’ve got to the stage where I’ve become just another one of the girls you invite out here.” They sat in silence for a moment. “You didn’t have to come.” “Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael …” “I know.” “I’m unhappy. I don’t want to fall in love with you. It’ll hurt far too much when it’s over.” “Listen, I’ve had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. We shared out the property so that my sister got our apartment and I got the cabin. Apart from some casual acquaintances in the early years, there are five women who have been here before you: Erika, Lisbeth and my ex-wife, who I was together with in the ’80s, a woman I was in a serious relationship with in the late ’90s, and someone I met two years ago, whom I still see occasionally. It’s sort of special circumstances …” “I bet it is.” “I keep this cabin so that I can get away from the city and have some quiet time. I’m mostly here on my own. I read books, I write, and I relax and sit on the wharf and look at the boats. It’s not a secret love nest.” He stood up to get the bottle of wine he had put in the shade. “I won’t make any promises. My marriage broke up because Erika and I couldn’t keep away from each other,” he said, and then he added in English, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.” He filled their glasses. “But you’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a long time. It’s as if our relationship took off at full speed from a standing start. I think I fell for you the moment you picked me up outside my apartment. The few times I’ve slept at my place since then, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night needing you. I don’t know if I want a steady relationship, but I’m terrified of losing you.” He looked at her. “So what do you think we should do?” “Let’s think about things,” Figuerola said. “I’m badly attracted to you too.” “This is starting to get serious,” Blomkvist said. She suddenly felt a great sadness. They did not say much for a long time. When it got dark they cleared the table, went inside and closed the door. On the Friday before the week of the trial, Blomkvist stopped at the Pressbyr?n news-stand at Slussen and read the billboards for the morning papers. Svenska Morgon-Posten’s C.E.O. and chairman of the board Magnus Borgsj? had capitulated and tendered his resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsj? cited family reasons as the explanation for his unexpected resignation. He would not comment on claims that Berger had also resigned after he ordered her to cover up a story about his involvement in the wholesale enterprise Vitavara Inc. But in a sidebar it was reported that the chair of Svenskt N?ringsliv, the confederation of Swedish enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with businesses in South East Asia known to exploit child labour. Blomkvist burst out laughing, and then he folded the morning papers and flipped open his Ericsson to call the woman who presented She on T.V.4, who was in the middle of a lunchtime sandwich. “Hello, darling,” Blomkvist said. “I’m assuming you’d still like dinner sometime.” “Hi, Mikael,” she laughed. “Sorry, but you couldn’t be further from my type.” “Still, how about coming out with me this evening to discuss a job?” “What have you got going?” “Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about the Wennerstr?m affair. I want to make a similar deal that will work just as well.” “I’m all ears.” “I can’t tell you about it until we’ve agreed on the terms. I’ve got a story in the works. We’re going to publish a book and a themed issue of the magazine, and it’s going to be huge. I’m offering you an exclusive look at all the material, provided you don’t leak anything before we publish. This time the publication is extra complicated because it has to happen on a specific day.” “How big is the story?” “Bigger than Wennerstr?m,” Blomkvist said. “Are you interested?” “Are you serious? Where shall we meet?” “How about Samir’s Cauldron? Erika’s going to sit in on the meeting.” “What’s going with on her? Is she back at Millennium now that she’s been thrown out of S.M.P.?” “She didn’t get thrown out. She resigned because of differences of opinion with Magnus Borgsj?.” “He seems to be a real creep.” “You’re not wrong there,” Blomkvist said. * Clinton was listening to Verdi through his earphones. Music was pretty much the only thing left in life that could take him away from dialysis machines and the growing pain in the small of his back. He did not hum to the music. He closed his eyes and followed the notes with his right hand, which hovered and seemed to have a life of its own alongside his disintegrating body. That is how it goes. We are born. We live. We grow old. We die. He had played his part. All that remained was the disintegration. He felt strangely satisfied with life. He was playing for his friend Evert Gullberg. It was Saturday, July 9. Only four days until the trial, and the Section could set about putting this whole wretched story behind them. He had had the message that morning. Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had known. When you fire a 9 mm full-metal-jacketed bullet into your own temple you expect to die. Yet it was three months before Gullberg’s body gave up at last. That was probably due as much to chance as to the stubbornness with which the doctors had waged the battle for Gullberg’s life. And it was the cancer, not the bullet, that had finally determined his end. Gullberg’s death had been painful, and that saddened Clinton. Although incapable of communicating with the outside world, he had at times been in a semi-conscious state, smiling when the hospital staff stroked his cheek or grunting when he seemed to be in pain. Sometimes he had tried to form words and even sentences, but nobody was able to understand anything he said. He had no family, and none of his friends came to his sickbed. His last contact with life was an Eritrean night nurse by the name of Sara Kitama, who kept watch at his bedside and held his hand as he died. Clinton realized that he would soon be following his former comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of his surviving a transplant operation decreased each day. His liver and intestinal functions appeared to have declined at each examination. He hoped to live past Christmas. Yet he was contented. He felt an almost spiritual, giddy satisfaction that his final days had involved such a sudden and surprising return to service. It was a boon he could not have anticipated. The last notes of Verdi faded away just somebody opened the door to the small room in which he was resting at the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton opened his eyes. It was Wadensj??. He had come to the conclusion that Wadensj?? was a dead weight. He was entirely unsuitable as director of the most important vanguard of Swedish national defence. He could not conceive how he and von Rottinger could ever have made such a fundamental miscalculation as to imagine that Wadensj?? was the appropriate successor. Wadensj?? was a warrior who needed a fair wind. In a crisis he was feeble and incapable of making a decision. A timid encumbrance lacking steel in his backbone who would most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action, and let the Section go under. It was this simple. Some had it. Others would always falter when it came to the crunch. “You wanted a word?” “Sit down,” Clinton said. Wadensj?? sat. “I’m at a stage in my life when I can no longer waste time. I’ll get straight to the point. When all this is over, I want you to resign from the management of the Section.” “You do?” Clinton tempered his tone. “You’re a good man, Wadensj??. But unfortunately you’re completely unsuited to shouldering the responsibility after Gullberg. You should not have been given that responsibility. Von Rottinger and I were at fault when we failed to deal properly with the succession after I got sick.” “You’ve never liked me.” “You’re wrong about that. You were an excellent administrator when von Rottinger and I were in charge of the Section. We would have been helpless without you, and I have great admiration for your patriotism. It’s your inability to make decisions that lets you down.” Wadensj?? smiled bitterly. “After this, I don’t know if I even want to stay in the Section.” “Now that Gullberg and von Rottinger are gone, I’ve had to make the crucial decisions myself,” Clinton said. “And you’ve obstructed every decision I’ve made during the past few months.” “And I maintain that the decisions you’ve made are absurd. It’s going to end in disaster.” “That’s possible. But your indecision would have guaranteed our collapse. Now at least we have a chance, and it seems to be working. Millennium don’t know which way to turn. They may suspect that we’re somewhere out here, but they lack documentation and they have no way of finding it – or us. And we know at least as much as they do.” Wadensj?? looked out of the window and across the rooftops. “The only thing we still have to do is to get rid of Zalachenko’s daughter,” Clinton said. “If anyone starts burrowing about in her past and listening to what she has to say, there’s no knowing what might happen. But the trial starts in a few days and then it’ll be over. This time we have to bury her so deep that she’ll never come back to haunt us.” Wadensj?? shook his head. “I don’t understand your attitude,” Clinton said. “I can see that. You’re sixty-eight years old. You’re dying. Your decisions are not rational, and yet you seem to have bewitched Nystr?m and Sandberg. They obey you as if you were God the Father.” “I am God the Father in everything that has to do with the Section. We’re working according to a plan. Our decision to act has given the Section a chance. And it is with the utmost conviction that I say that the Section will never find itself in such an exposed position again. When all this is over, we’re going to put in hand a complete overhaul of our activities.” “I see.” “Nystr?m will be the new director. He’s really too old, but he’s the only choice we have, and he’s promised to stay on for six years at least. Sandberg is too young and – as a direct result of your management policies – too inexperienced. He should have been fully trained by now.” “Clinton, don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve murdered a man. Bj?rck worked for the Section for thirty-five years, and you ordered his death. Do you not understand—” “You know quite well that it was necessary. He betrayed us, and he would never have withstood the pressure when the police closed in.” Wadensj?? stood up. “I’m not finished.” “Then we’ll have to take it up later. I have a job to do while you lie here fantasizing that you’re the Almighty.” “If you’re so morally indignant, why don’t you go to Bublanski and confess your crimes?” “Believe me, I’ve considered it. But whatever you may think, I’m doing everything in my power to protect the Section.” He opened the door and met Nystr?m and Sandberg on their way in. “Hello, Fredrik,” Nystr?m said. “We have to talk.” “Wadensj?? was just leaving.” Nystr?m waited until the door had closed. “Fredrik, I’m seriously worried.” “What’s going on?” “Sandberg and I have been thinking. Things are happening that we don’t understand. This morning Salander’s lawyer lodged her autobiographical statement with the prosecutor.” “What?” Inspector Faste scrutinized Advokat Giannini as Ekstr?m poured coffee from a thermos jug. The document Ekstr?m had been handed when he arrived at work that morning had taken both of them by surprise. He and Faste had read the forty pages of Salander’s story and discussed the extraordinary document at length. Finally he felt compelled to ask Giannini to come in for an informal chat. They were sitting at the small conference table in Ekstr?m’s office. “Thank you for agreeing to come in,” Ekstr?m said. “I have read this … hmm, account that arrived this morning, and there are a few matters I’d like to clarify.” “I’ll do what I can to help” Giannini said. “I don’t know exactly where to start. Let me say from the outset that both Inspector Faste and I are profoundly astonished.” “Indeed?” “I’m trying to understand what your objective is.” “How do you mean?” “This autobiography, or whatever you want to call it … What’s the point of it?” “The point is perfectly clear. My client wants to set down her version of what has happened to her.” Ekstr?m gave a good-natured laugh. He stroked his goatee, an oft-repeated gesture that was beginning to irritate Giannini. “Yes, but your client has had several months to explain herself. She hasn’t said a word in all her interviews with Faste.” “As far as I know there is no law that forces my client to talk simply when it suits Inspector Faste.” “No, but I mean … Salander’s trial will begin in four days’ time, and at the eleventh hour she comes up with this. To tell the truth, I feel a responsibility here which is beyond my duties as prosecutor.” “You do?” “I do not in the very least wish to sound offensive. That is not my intention. But we have a procedure for trials in this country. You, Fru Giannini, are a lawyer specialising in women’s rights, and you have never before represented a client in a criminal case. I did not charge Lisbeth Salander because she is a woman, but on a charge of grievous bodily harm. Even you, I believe, must have realized that she suffers from a serious mental illness and needs the protection and assistance of the state.” “You’re afraid that I won’t be able to provide Lisbeth Salander with an adequate defence,&rdq............