He had had enough praise and flattery—the only tribute that did affect him was Pernilla’s text:
Her sensational decrypted document had allowed him to unravel the whole story, and had even persuaded Needham and the head of Solifon, Nicolas Grant, to give him more details. But he had heard from Salander only once since then: when he had interviewed her—to the extent that was possible—over the RedPhone app about what had happened out at the summer house on Ingarö.
That was a week ago now and Blomkvist had no idea what she thought of his article. Maybe she was angry that he had dramatized it. He had no choice but to fill in the blanks around the meagre answers she gave. Or perhaps she was furious because he had not mentioned Camilla by name but had simply referred to her as a Swedish-Russian woman known as Thanos. Or else she was disappointed that he had not taken a harder line across the board. It was impossible to know.
The situation was not improved by the fact that Chief Prosecutor Ekström really did appear to be considering a case against Salander: unlawful deprivation of liberty and seizure of property were the charges he had cooked up.
Eventually Blomkvist got fed up with it all and left the party without saying goodbye. The weather was awful and for lack of anything better to do he scrolled through his text messages. There were congratulations and requests for interviews and a couple of indecent proposals. But nothing from Salander. He switched off his mobile and trudged home with surprisingly heavy steps for a man who had just pulled off the scoop of the century.
—
Salander was sitting on her red sofa on Fiskargatan, gazing emptily out at Gamla Stan and Riddarfjärden. It was a little over a year since she had started the hunt for her sister and her father’s criminal legacy, and there was no denying her success on many counts.
She had tracked down Camilla and dealt the Spiders a serious blow. The connections with Solifon and the NSA had been severed. Ivan Gribanov, the Duma member, was coming under tremendous pressure in Moscow, Camilla’s hit man was dead and her closest henchman, Jurij Bogdanov, and several other computer engineers were wanted by the police, forced to go underground. But Camilla was alive somewhere out there. Nothing was over. Salander had only winged her quarry and that was not enough. Grimly she looked down at the coffee table, where a packet of cigarettes and her unread copy of Millennium lay. She picked up the magazine and put it down again. Then she picked it up once more and read Blomkvist’s report. When she reached the last sentence she stared for a while at the new photograph next to his byline. Then she jumped to her feet and went to the bathroom to put on some makeup. She pulled on a tight black T-shirt and a leather jacket and went out into the December evening.
She was freezing. It was crazy to be wearing so little, but she did not care. She cut down towards Mariatorget with quick steps, turned left into Swedenborgsgatan, and walked into a restaurant called Süd, where she sat down at the bar and alternated between whisky and beer. Since much of the clientele came from the world of culture and journalism, it was hardly surprising that many of them recognized her. Guitarist Johan Norberg, for example, who wrote a regular column for We and was known for picking up on small yet significant details, observed that Salander was not drinking as if she enjoyed it, but rather as if she had to get it out of the way.
There was something determined about her body language, and a cognitive behavioral therapist who happened to be sitting at a table nearby wondered if Salander was even aware of anyone else in the restaurant. She hardly looked around the room and seemed to be preparing herself for some kind of operation or action.
At 9:15 she paid in cash and stepped into the night without a word or gesture.
—
Despite the cold, Blomkvist walked home slowly, deep in gloom. A smile only crossed his lips when he ran into some of the regulars outside the Bishops Arms.
“So you weren’t washed up after all!” Arne, or whatever his name was, bellowed.
“Maybe not quite yet,” Blomkvist replied. For a moment he considered having a last beer inside and chatting with Amir.
But he felt too miserable. He wanted to be alone, so he continued to the entrance door of his building. On the way up the stairs he was overcome by a vague sense of unease, maybe as a result of all he had been through. He tried to dismiss it, but it would not go away, especially when he realized that a light had blown on the top floor. It was pitch-black up there.
He slowed his steps and sensed a movement. There was a flicker, a weak sliver of light as if from a mobile, and a figure like a ghost, a slight person with dark flashing eyes, could be made out.
“Who’s that?” he said, frightened.
Then he saw it was Salander.
He brightened at first and opened his arms, but she looked furious. Her eyes were rimmed with black and her body seemed coiled, as if prepared for an attack.
“Are you angry with me?” he said.
“Quite.”
“Why is that?”
Salander took a step forward, her face shining and pale, and he remembered her gunshot wound.
“Because I come to visit, and there’s no-one at home,” she said. He walked towards her.
“That’s a bit of a scandal, isn’t it?” he said.
“I’d say so.”
“What if I ask you in now?”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to accept.”
“In that case, welcome,” he said, and for the first time in ages a broad smile spread across his face.
A star fell outside in the night sky.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincere thanks to my agent, Magdalena Hedlund; Stieg Larsson’s father and brother, Erland and Joakim Larsson; my publishers, Eva Gedin and Susanna Romanus; my editor Ingemar Karlsson; and Linda Altrov Berg and Catherine Mörk at Norstedts Agency.
I also owe thanks to David Jacoby, senior security researcher at Kaspersky Lab, and Andreas Strömbergsson, professor of mathematics at Uppsala University, as well as to Fredrik Laurin, digger-in-chief at Ekot, Mikael Lagström, V.P. services at Outpost 24, the authors Daniel Goldberg and Linus Larsson, and Menachem Harari.
And of course to my Anne.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Lagercrantz is an acclaimed Swedish writer and crime journalist. He is the author of Fall of Man in Wilmslow, a novel inspired by the life and death of Alan Turing, and coauthor of the best-selling autobiography by international soccer star Zlatan Ibrahimović, I Am Zlatan Ibrahimović, which was short-listed for the William Hill Sports Book of the Year award and nominated for the August Prize in Sweden.
A NOTE ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
George Goulding was born in Stockholm, educated in England, and spent his legal career working for a London-based law firm. Since his retirement in 2011 he has worked as a translator of Swedish fiction.
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