Her forty-fifth birthday was coming up. She had done her apprenticeship as a trainee and a temp. She had put together Millennium and become its editor in chief on her own merits. The moment when she would have to pick up the telephone and say yes or no was fast approaching, and she did not know what she was going to do. During the past week she had considered time and again discussing the matter with Blomkvist, but she had not been able to summon up the nerve. Instead she had been hiding the offer from him, which gave her a pang of guilt.
There were some obvious disadvantages. A yes would mean breaking up the partnership with Blomkvist. He would never follow her to the Svenska Morgon-Posten, no matter how sweet a deal she or they could offer him. He did not need the money now, and he was getting on fine writing articles at his own pace.
Berger liked being editor in chief of Millennium. It had given her a status within the world of journalism that she considered almost undeserved. She had never been the producer of the news. That was not her thing—she regarded herself as a mediocre writer. On the other hand, she was first-rate on radio or TV, and above all she was a brilliant editor. Besides, she enjoyed the hands-on work of editing, which was a prerequisite for the post of editor in chief at Millennium.
Nevertheless, she was tempted. Not so much by the salary as by the fact that the job meant that she would become without question one of Sweden’s big-time media players. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer, the CEO had said.
Somewhere near the Grand Hotel in Saltsjöbaden she realized to her dismay that she was not going to be able to turn the offer down. And she shuddered at the thought of having to tell Blomkvist.
Dinner at the Gianninis’ was, as always, mildly chaotic. Annika had two children: Monica, thirteen, and Jennie, ten. Her husband, Enrico, who was the head of the Scandinavian arm of an international biotech firm, had custody of Antonio, his sixteen-year-old son from his first marriage. Also at dinner were Enrico’s mother Antonia, his brother Pietro, his sister-in-law Eva-Lotta, and their children Peter and Nicola. Plus Enrico’s sister Marcella and her four kids, who lived in the same neighbourhood. Enrico’s aunt Angelina, who was regarded by the family as stark raving mad, or on good days just extremely eccentric, had also been invited, along with her new boyfriend.
At the dining-room table, abundant with food, the conversation went on in a rattling mixture of Swedish and Italian, sometimes simultaneously. The situation was made more annoying because Angelina spent the evening wondering out loud—to anyone who would listen—why Annika’s brother was still a bachelor. She also proposed a number of suitable solutions to his problem from among the daughters of her friends. Exasperated, Blomkvist finally explained that he would be happy to get married but that unfortunately his lover was already married. That shut up even Angelina for a while.
At 7:30 Blomkvist’s mobile beeped. He’d thought he had shut it off and he almost missed the call as he dug it out of the inside pocket of his jacket, which someone had hung on the coatrack in the hall. It was Svensson.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“Not particularly. I’m at dinner with my sister and a platoon of people from her husband’s family. What’s up?”
“Two things. I’ve tried to get hold of Christer, but he’s not answering.”
“He’s at the theatre with his boyfriend.”
“Damn. I’d promised to meet him at the office tomorrow morning with the photographs and graphics for the book. Christer was going to look at them over the weekend. But Mia has suddenly decided to drive up to see her parents in Dalarna for Easter to show them her thesis. We’ll have to leave early in the morning and some of the pictures I can’t email. Could I messenger them over to you tonight?”
“You could … but look, I’m out in Lännersta. I’ll be here for a while, but I’m coming back into town later. Enskede wouldn’t be that far out of my way. I could drop by and pick them up. Would around 11:00 be OK?”
“That’s fine. The second thing … I don’t think you’re going to like this.”
“Shoot.”
“I stumbled across something I think I had better check out before the book goes to the printer.”
“OK—what is it?”
“Zala, spelled with a Z.”
“Ah. Zala the gangster. The one people seem to be terrified of and nobody wants to talk about.”
“That’s him. A couple of days ago I came across him again. I believe he’s in Sweden now and that he ought to be in the list of johns in chapter seven.”
“Dag—you can’t start digging up new material three weeks before we go to press.”
“I know. But this is a bit special. I talked to a policeman who had heard some talk about Zala. Anyway, I think it would make sense to spend a couple of days next week checking up on him.”
“Why him? You’ve got plenty of other assholes in the book.”
“This one seems to be an Olympian asshole. Nobody really knows who he is. I’ve got a gut feeling that it would be worth our while to poke around one more time.”
“Don’t ever discount your gut feelings,” Blomkvist said. “But honestly … we can’t push back the deadline. The printer is booked, and the book has to come out simultaneously with the Millennium issue.”
“I know,” Svensson said, sounding dejected.
“I’ll call you later,” Blomkvist said.
Johansson had just brewed a pot of coffee and poured it into the table thermos when the doorbell rang. It was just before 9:00 p.m. Svensson was closer to the door and, thinking it was Blomkvist coming earlier than he had said he would, he opened it without first looking through the peephole. Not Blomkvist. Instead he was confronted by a short, doll-like girl in her late teens.
“I’m looking for Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson,” the girl said.
“I’m Dag Svensson.”
“I’d like to speak with both of you.”
Svensson automatically looked at the clock. Johansson was curious and came into the hall to stand behind her boyfriend.
“It’s a bit late for a visit,” Svensson said.
“I’d like to talk about the book you’re planning on publishing at Millennium.”
Svensson and Johansson looked at each other.
“And who are you?”
“I’m interested in the subject. May I come in, or shall we discuss it here on the landing?”
Svensson hesitated for a second. The girl was a total stranger, and the time of her visit was odd, but she seemed harmless enough, so he held the door open. He showed her to the table in the living room.
“Would you like some coffee?” Johansson said.
“How about first telling us who you are,” Svensson said.
“Yes, please. To the coffee, I mean. My name is Lisbeth Salander.”
Johansson shrugged and opened the table thermos. She had already set out cups in anticipation of Blomkvist’s visit. “And what makes you think I’m publishing a book at Millennium?” Svensson said.
He was suddenly deeply suspicious, but the girl ignored him and turned instead to Johansson. She made a face that could have been a crooked smile.
“Interesting thesis,” she said.
Johansson looked shocked.
“How could you know anything about my thesis?”
“I happened to get hold of a copy,” the girl said cryptically.
Svensson’s annoyance grew. “Now you’re really going to have to explain who you are and what you want.”
The girl’s eyes met his. He suddenly noticed that her irises were so dark that in this light her eyes might be raven black. And perhaps he had underestimated her age.
“I’d like to know why you’re going around asking questions about Zala. Alexander Zala,” Salander said. “And above all I’d like to know exactly what you know about him already.”
Alexander Zala, Svensson thought in shock. He had never known the first name.
The girl lifted her coffee cup and took a sip without releasing him from her ga
ze. Her eyes had no warmth at all. He suddenly felt vaguely uneasy.
Unlike Blomkvist and the other adults at the dinner party (and despite the fact that she was the birthday girl), Annika Giannini had drunk only light beer and refrained from any wine or aquavit with the meal. So at 10:30 she was stone-cold sober. Since in some respects she took her big brother for a complete idiot who needed to be looked after, she generously offered to drive him home via Enskede. She had already planned to drive him to the bus stop on Värmdövägen, and it wouldn’t take that much longer to go into the city.
“Why don’t you get your own car?” she complained anyway as Blomkvist fastened his seat belt.
“Because unlike you I live within walking distance of my work and need a car about once a year. Besides, I wouldn’t have been able to drive anyway after your husband started serving spirits from Skåne.”
“He’s becoming Swedish. Ten years ago it would have been grappa.”
They spent the ride talking as brothers and sisters do. Apart from a persistent paternal aunt, two less persistent maternal aunts, two distant cousins, and one second cousin, Mikael and Annika had only each other for family. The three-year age difference meant that they had not had much in common during their teens. But they had become closer as adults.
Annika had studied law, and Blomkvist thought of her as a great deal more talented than he was. She sailed through university, spent a few years in the district courts, and then became the assistant to one of the better-known lawyers in Sweden. Then she started her own practice. She had specialized in family law, which gradually developed into work on equal rights. She became an advocate for abused women, wrote a book on the subject, and became a respected name. To top it off, she had become involved politically for the Social Democrats, which prompted Blomkvist to tease her about being an apparatchik. Blomkvist himself had decided early on that he could not combine party membership with journalistic credibility. He never willingly voted, and on the occasions when he felt absolutely obliged to vote he refused to talk about his choices, even with Berger.
“How are you doing?” Annika said as they crossed Skurubron.
“Oh, I’m doing fine.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“What problem?”
“I know you, Micke. You’ve been preoccupied all evening.”
Blomkvist sat in silence for a moment.
“It’s a complicated story. I’ve got two problems right now. One is about a girl I met two years ago who helped me on the Wennerström affair and then just disappeared from my life with no explanation. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her in more than a year, except for last week.”
Blomkvist told her about the attack on Lundagatan.
“Did you report it to the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“This girl is manically private. She was the one who was attacked. She’ll have to make the report.”
Which Blomkvist expected would not be high on Salander’s list of priorities.
“Bullheaded as usual,” Annika said, patting Blomkvist on the cheek. “What’s the second problem?”
“We’re working on a story at Millennium that’s going to make headlines. I’ve been sitting all evening wondering whether I should consult you. As a lawyer, I mean.”
Annika glanced in surprise at her brother. “Consult me?” she exclaimed. “That’d be something new.”
“The story’s about trafficking and violence against women. You deal with violence against women and you’re a lawyer. You probably don’t work with cases of freedom of the press, but I would be really grateful if you could read through the manuscript before we send it to the printer. There are magazine articles and a book, so there’s quite a bit to read.”
Annika was silent as she turned down the Hammarby industrial road and passed Sickla lock. She wound her way down side streets parallel to Nynäsvägen until she could turn up Enskedevägen.
“You know, Mikael, I’ve been really mad at you only once in my whole life.”
“Is that so?” he said, surprised.
“It was when you were taken to court by Wennerström and sent to prison for libel. I was so furious with you that I thought I would explode.”
“Why? I only made a fool of myself.”
“You’ve made a fool of yourself many times before. But this time you needed a lawyer, and the only person you didn’t turn to was me. Instead you sat there taking shit in both the media and the courtroom. You didn’t even defend yourself. I thought I was going to die.”
“There were special circumstances. There wasn’t a thing you could have done.”
“All right, but I didn’t understand that until later, when Millennium got back on its feet and mopped the floor with Wennerström. Until that happened I was so damn disappointed in you.”
“There was no way we could have won that trial.”
“You’re not getting the point, big brother. I understand that it was a hopeless case. I’ve read the judgment. The point was that you didn’t come to me and ask for help. As in, hey, little sister, I need a lawyer. That’s why I never turned up in court.”
Blomkvist thought it over.
“I’m sorry. I admit it, I should have done that.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I wasn’t functioning at all that year. I couldn’t face talking to anybody. I just wanted to lie down and die.”
“Which you didn’t do, exactly.”
“Forgive me.”
Annika Giannini gave him a big smile.
“Beautiful. An apology two years later. OK. I’ll happily read through the text. Are you in a rush?”
“Yes. We’re going to press very soon. Turn left here.”
Annika parked across the street from the building on Björneborgsvägen where Svensson and Johansson lived. “This’ll just take a minute,” Blomkvist said. He jogged across the street to punch in the door code. As soon as he was inside he could tell that something was wrong. He heard excited voices echoing in the stairwell and ran up the three flights to the apartment. Not until he reached their floor did he realize that the commotion was all around their apartment. Five neighbours were standing on the landing. The apartment door was ajar.
“What’s going on?” Blomkvist said, more out of curiosity than concern.
They all fell silent and looked at him. Three women, two men, all in their seventies it seemed. One of the women was wearing a nightgown.
“It sounded like shots,” said a man in a brown dressing gown, who seemed to know what he was talking about.
“Shots?”
“Just now. There was shooting in the apartment about a minute ago. The door was open.”
Blomkvist pushed forward and rang the doorbell as he walked into the apartment.
“Dag? Mia?” he called.
No answer.
Suddenly he felt an icy shiver run down his neck. He recognized the smell: cordite. Then he approached the living-room door. The first thing he saw was HolyMotherofGod Svensson slumped beside the dining-room chairs in a pool of blood a yard across.
Blomkvist hurried over. At the same time he pulled out his mobile and dialled 112 for emergency services. They answered right away.
“My name is Mikael Blomkvist. I need an ambulance and police.”
He gave the address.
“What is this regarding?”
“A man. He seems to have been shot in the head and is unconscious.”
Blomkvist bent down and tried to find a pulse on Svensson’s neck. Then he saw the enormous crater in the back of his head and realized that he must be standing in Svensson’s brain matter. Slowly he withdrew his hand.
No ambulance crew in the world would be able to save Dag Svensson now.
Then he noticed shards from one of the coffee cups that Johansson had inherited from her grandmother and that she was so afraid would get broken. He straightened up quickly and looked all around.
“Mia,” he yelled.
The neighbour in the brown dressing gown had come into the hall behind him. Blomkvist turned at the living-room door and held his hand up.
“Stop there,” he said. “Back out to the stairs.”
The neighbour at first looked as if he wanted to protest, but he obeyed the order. Blomkvist stood still for fifteen seconds. Then he stepped around the pool of blood and proceeded warily past Svensson’s body to the bedroom door.
Johansson lay on her back on the floor at the foot of the bed. NonononotMiatooforGodssake. She had been shot in the face. The bullet had entered below her jaw by her left ear. The exit wound in her temple was as big as an orange and her right eye socket gaped empty. The flow of blood was if possible even greater than that from her partner. The force of the bullet had been such that the wall above the head of the bed, several yards away, was covered with blood splatter.
Blomkvist became aware that he was clutching his mobile in a death grip with the line to the emergency centre still open and that he had been holding his breath. He took air into his lungs and raised the telephone.
“We need the police. Two people have been shot. I think they’re dead. Please hurry.”
He heard the voice from emergency services say something but did not catch the words. He felt as if there was something wrong with his hearing. It was utterly silent around him. He did not hear the sound of his own voice when he tried to say something. He backed out of the apartment. When he got out to the landing he realized that his whole body was shaking and that his heart was pounding painfully. Without a word he squeezed through the petrified crowd of neighbours and sat down on the stairs. From far away he could hear the neighbours asking him questions. What happened? Are they hurt? Did something happen? The sound of their voices echoed as if coming through a tunnel.
Blomkvist felt numb. He knew that he was in shock. He leaned his head down between his knees. Then he began to think. Good God—they’ve been murdered. They were shot just a few minutes ago. The killer could still be in the apartment … no, I would have seen him. He couldn’t stop shaking. The sight of Johansson’s shattered face could not be erased from his retina.
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle Page 72