The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

  "All right, but your damned brother is in Goteborg today. He's asleep and has turned off his mobile."

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

  "I've been keeping it under wraps all this time. Mikael's going to--"

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

  Berger sighed.

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

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

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

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

  "Congrats, Ricky," he said. "Editor in chief of SMP. That's not a bad step up from this sorry little rag."

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

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

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

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

  Malm nodded thoughtfully.

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

  There was absolute silence in the room.

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

  "Mikael," Malm said.

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

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

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

  "What's your plan?"

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

  "Not on your life." Malm threw up his hands.

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

  "Me?" Eriksson said. She sounded shocked.

  "Yes, you. You've been damned good as managing editor."

  "But I--"

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

  She studied the group thoughtfully.

  "One more thing. For all practical purposes, SMP and Millennium are not competitors, but nevertheless I don't want to know any more than I already do about the content of the next two issues. All such matters should be discussed with Malin, effective immediately."

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

  "Discuss it with Mikael. I know something about Salander, but I'm putting what I know in mothballs. I won't take it to SMP." Berger suddenly felt an enormous wave of relief. "That's about it," she said, and she ended the meeting by getting up and going back to her office without another word.

  Millennium's staff sat in silence.

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

  "Hello there."

  "Yes?" said Berger.

  "The staff would like to have a word."

  "What is it?"

  "Out here."

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 3

  Friday, April 8-Saturday, April 9

  Zalachenko had been awake for eight hours when Inspectors Modig and Erlander came to his room at 7:00 in the evening. He had undergone an extensive operation in which a significant section of his jaw was realigned and fixed with titanium screws. His head was wrapped in so many bandages that you could see only his left eye and a narrow slit of mouth. A doctor had explained that the axe blow had crushed his cheekbone and damaged his forehead, peeling off a large part of the flesh on the right side of his face and tugging at his eye socket. His injuries were causing him immense pain. He had been given large doses of painkillers, yet was relatively lucid and able to talk. But the officers were warned not to tire him.

  "Good evening, Herr Zalachenko," Modig said. She introduced herself and her colleague.

  "My name is Karl Axel Bodin," Zalachenko said laboriously through clenched teeth. His voice was steady.

  "I know exactly who you are. I've read your file from Sapo."

  This, of course, was not true.

  "That was a long time ago," Zalachenko said. "I'm Karl Axel Bodin now."

  "How are you doing? Are you able to have a conversation?"

  "I want to report a serious crime. I have been the victim of attempted murder by my daughter."

  "We know. That matter will be dealt with at the appropriate time," Erlander said. "But we have more urgent issues to talk about."

  "What could be more urgent than attempted murder?"

  "Right now we need information from you about three murders in Stockholm
, at least three murders in Nykvarn, and a kidnapping."

  "I don't know anything about that. Who was murdered?"

  "Herr Bodin, we have good reason to believe that your associate, thirty-five-year-old Ronald Niedermann, is guilty of these crimes," Erlander said. "Last night he also murdered a police officer from Trollhattan."

  Modig was surprised that Erlander had acquiesced to Zalachenko's wish to be called Bodin. Zalachenko turned his head a little so that he could see Erlander. His voice softened slightly.

  "That is . . . unfortunate to hear. I know nothing about Niedermann's affairs. I have not killed any policeman. I was the victim of attempted murder myself last night."

  "There's a manhunt under way for Ronald Niedermann even as we speak. Do you have any idea where he might hide?"

  "I am not aware of the circles he moves in. I . . ." Zalachenko hesitated a few seconds. His voice took on a confidential tone. "I must admit, just between us, that sometimes I worry about Niedermann."

  Erlander bent towards him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have discovered that he can be a violent person. . . . I am actually afraid of him."

  "You mean you felt threatened by Niedermann?" Erlander said.

  "Precisely. I'm old and handicapped. I cannot defend myself."

  "Could you explain your relationship to Niedermann?"

  "I'm disabled." Zalachenko gestured towards his feet. "This is the second time my daughter has tried to kill me. I hired Niedermann as an assistant a number of years ago. I thought he could protect me, but he has actually taken over my life. He comes and goes as he pleases. . . . I have nothing more to say about it."

  "What does he help you with?" Modig broke in. "Doing things that you can't do yourself?"

  Zalachenko gave Modig a long look with his only visible eye.

  "I understand that your daughter threw a Molotov cocktail into your car in the early nineties," Modig said. "Can you explain what prompted her to do that?"

  "You would have to ask my daughter. She is mentally ill." His tone was again hostile.

  "You mean that you can't think of any reason why Lisbeth Salander attacked you in 1991?"

  "My daughter is mentally ill. There is substantial documentation."

  Modig cocked her head. Zalachenko's answers were much more aggressive and hostile when she asked the questions. She saw that Erlander had noticed the same thing. OK. Good cop, bad cop. Modig raised her voice.

  "You don't think that her actions could have anything to do with the fact that you had beaten her mother so badly that she suffered permanent brain damage?"

  Zalachenko turned his head towards Modig.

  "That is all bullshit. Her mother was a whore. It was probably one of her johns who beat her up. I just happened to be passing by."

  Modig raised her eyebrows. "So you're completely innocent?"

  "Of course I am."

  "Zalachenko . . . let me repeat that to see if I've understood you correctly. You say that you never beat your girlfriend, Agneta Sofia Salander, Lisbeth's mother, despite the fact that the whole business is the subject of a long report, stamped TOP SECRET, written at the time by your handler at Sapo, Gunnar Bjorck."

  "I was never convicted of anything. I have never been charged. I cannot help it if some idiot in the Security Police fantasizes in his reports. If I had been a suspect, they would have at the very least questioned me."

  Modig made no answer. Zalachenko seemed to be grinning beneath his bandages.

  "So I wish to press charges against my daughter. For trying to kill me."

  Modig sighed. "I'm beginning to understand why she felt an uncontrollable urge to slam an axe into your head."

  Erlander cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Herr Bodin. We should get back to any information you might have about Ronald Niedermann's activities."

  Modig made a call to Inspector Bublanski from the corridor outside Zalachenko's hospital room.

  "Nothing," she said.

  "Nothing?" Bublanski said.

  "He's lodging a complaint with the police against Salander--for aggravated assault and attempted murder. He says that he had nothing to do with the murders in Stockholm."

  "And how does he explain the fact that Salander was buried in a trench on his property in Gosseberga?"

  "He says he had a cold and was asleep most of the day. If Salander was shot in Gosseberga, it must have been something that Niedermann decided to do."

  "So what do we have?"

  "She was shot with a Browning, .22 calibre. Which is why she's still alive. We found the weapon. Zalachenko admits that it's his."

  "I see. In other words, he knows we're going to find his prints on the gun."

  "Exactly. But he says that the last time he saw the gun, it was in his desk drawer."

  "Which means that the excellent Herr Niedermann took the weapon while Zalachenko was asleep and shot Salander. This is one cold bastard. Do we have any evidence to the contrary?"

  Modig thought for a few seconds before she replied. "Zalachenko is well versed in Swedish law and police procedure. He doesn't admit to a thing, and he has Niedermann as a scapegoat. I don't have any idea what we can prove. I asked Erlander to send his clothes to forensics and have them examined for traces of gunpowder, but he's bound to say that he was doing target practice two days ago."

  Salander was aware of the smell of almonds and ethanol. It felt as if she had alcohol in her mouth and she tried to swallow, but her tongue felt numb and paralysed. She tried to open her eyes, but she could not. In the distance she heard a voice that seemed to be talking to her, but she could not understand the words. Then she heard the voice quite clearly.

  "I think she's coming around."

  She felt someone touch her forehead and tried to brush away the intrusive hand. At the same moment she felt intense pain in her left shoulder. She forced herself to relax.

  "Can you hear me, Lisbeth?"

  Go away.

  "Can you open your eyes?"

  Who was this fucking idiot harping on at her?

  Finally she did open her eyes. At first she just saw strange lights, until a figure appeared in the centre of her field of vision. She tried to focus her gaze, but the figure kept slipping away. She felt as if she had a stupendous hangover, and the bed seemed to keep tilting backwards.

  "Pnkllrs," she said.

  "Say that again?"

  "'diot," she said.

  "That sounds good. Can you open your eyes again?"

  She opened her eyes to narrow slits. She saw the face of a complete stranger and memorized every detail. A blond man with intense blue eyes and a tilted, angular face about a foot from hers.

  "Hello. My name is Anders Jonasson. I'm a doctor. You're in a hospital. You were injured and you're waking up after an operation. Can you tell me your name?"

  "Pshalandr," Salander said.

  "Good. Would you do me a favour and count to ten?"

  "One, two, four . . . no . . . three, four, five, six . . ."

  Then she passed out.

  Dr. Jonasson was pleased with the response he had gotten. She had said her name and started to count. That meant that she still had her cognitive abilities somewhat intact and was not going to end up a vegetable. He wrote down her wake-up time as 9:06 p.m., about sixteen hours after he had finished the operation. He had slept most of the day and then drove back to the hospital at around 7:00 in the evening. He was actually off that day, but he had some paperwork to catch up on.

  And he could not resist going to intensive care to look in on the patient whose brain he had rooted around in early that morning.

  "Let her sleep awhile, but check her EEG regularly. I'm worried there might be swelling or bleeding in the brain. She seemed to have sharp pain in her left shoulder when she tried to move her arm. If she wakes up again you can give her two milligrams of morphine per hour."

  He felt oddly exhilarated as he left by the main entrance of Sahlgrenska.

  Anita Kaspersson, a d
ental hygienist who lived in Alingsas, was shaking all over as she stumbled through the woods. She had severe hypothermia. She wore only a pair of wet pants and a thin sweater. Her bare feet were bleeding. She had managed to free herself from the barn where the man had tied her up, but she could not untie the rope that bound her hands behind her back. Her fingers had no feeling in them at all.

  She felt as if she were the last person on earth, abandoned by everyone.

  She had no idea where she was. It was dark, and she had no sense of how long she had been aimlessly walking. She was amazed to still be alive.

  Then she saw a light through the trees and stopped.

  For several minutes she did not dare to approach the light. She pushed through some bushes and stood in the yard of a one-storey house of grey brick. She looked around her in astonishment.

  She staggered to the door and turned to kick it with her heel.

  Salander opened her eyes and saw a light in the ceiling. After a minute she turned her head and became aware that she had on a neck brace. She had a heavy, dull headache and acute pain in her left shoulder. She closed her eyes.

  Hospital, she thought. What am I doing here?

  She felt exhausted, could hardly get her thoughts in order. Then the memories came rushing back to her. For several seconds she was seized by panic as the fragmented images of how she had dug herself out of a grave came flooding over her. Then she clenched her teeth and concentrated on breathing.

  She was alive, but she was not sure whether that was a good thing.

  She could not piece together all that had happened, but she summoned up a foggy mosaic of images from the woodshed and how she had swung an axe in fury and struck her father in the face. Zalachenko. Was he alive or dead?

  She could not clearly remember what had happened with Niedermann. She had a memory of being surprised that he had run away, and she did not know why.

  Suddenly she remembered having seen Kalle Fucking Blomkvist. Perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing, but she remembered a kitchen--it must have been the kitchen in the Gosseberga farmhouse--and she thought she remembered seeing him coming towards her. I must have been hallucinating.

  The events in Gosseberga already seemed like the distant past, or possibly a ridiculous dream. She concentrated on the present and opened her eyes again.

  She was in a bad way. She did not need anyone to tell her that. She raised her right hand and felt her head. There were bandages. Then she remembered it all. Niedermann. Zalachenko. The old bastard had a pistol too. A .22-calibre Browning. Which, compared to all other handguns, had to be considered a toy. That was why she was still alive.