The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle

by Stieg Larsson

  For a moment she kicked her feet in midair. Then she twisted around and kicked at Niedermann’s crotch. She hit his hip instead. It felt like kicking a tree trunk. Her vision was going black as he squeezed her neck and she felt herself drop the gun.

  Fuckers.

  Then Niedermann threw her across the room. She landed on a sofa with a crash and slid to the floor. She felt blood rushing to her head and staggered to her feet. She saw a heavy glass ashtray on a table and grabbed it and tried to fling it backhand. Niedermann caught her arm in mid-swing. She reached into her left pants pocket with her free hand and pulled out the Taser, twisting around to shove it into Niedermann’s crotch.

  She felt a hefty jolt from the electric shock come through the arm Niedermann was holding her with. She had expected him to collapse in pain. Instead he looked down at her with a surprised expression. Salander’s eyes widened in alarm. He seemed to experience some unpleasantness, but if he felt any pain he ignored it. This man is not normal.

  Niedermann bent and took the Taser from her and examined it with a puzzled look. Then he slapped her across the head. It was like being hit with a club. She tumbled to the floor next to the sofa. She looked up and saw that Niedermann was watching her curiously, as if wondering what her next move would be. Like a cat getting ready to play with its prey.

  Then she sensed a movement in the doorway. She turned her head.

  He came slowly into the light.

  He was leaning on a forearm crutch and she could see a prosthesis sticking out from his pants leg. There were two fingers missing from his left hand.

  She raised her eyes to his face. The left half was a patchwork of scar tissue. His ear was a little stump and he had no eyebrows. He was bald. She remembered him as a virile and athletic man with wavy black hair. Now he was about five foot four, and emaciated.

  “Hello, Pappa,” she said tonelessly.

  Alexander Zalachenko regarded his daughter without expression.

  Niedermann turned on the ceiling light. He checked that she had no more weapons by running his hands over her clothes and then clicked the safety on the P-83 Wanad and released the magazine. Zalachenko shuffled past them, sat in an armchair, and picked up a remote control.

  Salander’s eyes fell on the TV behind him. Zalachenko pressed the remote, and she saw a green flickering image of the area behind the barn and part of the driveway to the house. Infrared camera. They had known she was coming.

  “I was beginning to think that you wouldn’t dare to make an approach,” Zalachenko said. “We’ve been watching you since 4:00. You tripped just about every alarm around the farm.”

  “Motion detectors,” Salander said.

  “Two by the road and four in the clearing on the other side of the field. You set up your observation post on precisely the spot where we’d positioned alarms. It’s the best view of the farm. Usually it’s moose or deer, and sometimes berry-pickers who come too close. But we don’t often get to see somebody sneak up to the front door with a gun in their hand.” He paused for a moment. “Did you really think Zalachenko would sit in his little house in the country completely unprotected?”

  Salander massaged the back of her neck and began to get up.

  “Stay there on the floor,” Zalachenko said.

  Niedermann stopped fiddling with the gun and watched her quietly. He raised an eyebrow and smiled at her. Salander remembered Paolo Roberto’s battered face on TV and decided it would be a good idea to stay on the floor. She breathed out and leaned back against the sofa.

  Zalachenko held out his intact right hand. Niedermann pulled a weapon out of his waistband, cocked it, and gave it to him. Salander noticed that it was a Sig Sauer, standard police issue. Zalachenko nodded, and Niedermann turned away and put on a jacket. He left the room and Salander heard the front door open and close.

  “In case you get any stupid ideas, if you even try to get up I’ll shoot you right in the gut.”

  Salander relaxed. He might manage to get off two, maybe three shots before she could reach him, and he was probably using ammo that would make her bleed to death in a few minutes.

  “You look like shit,” Zalachenko said. “Like a fucking whore. But you’ve got my eyes.”

  “Does it hurt?” she asked, nodding at his prosthesis.

  Zalachenko looked at her for a long time. “No. Not anymore.”

  Salander stared at him.

  “You’d really like to kill me, wouldn’t you?” he said.

  She said nothing. He laughed.

  “I’ve thought about you over the years. In fact almost every time I look in the mirror.”

  “You should have left my mother alone.”

  “Your mother was a whore.”

  Salander’s eyes turned black as coal. “She was no whore. She worked as a cashier in a supermarket and tried to make ends meet.”

  Zalachenko laughed again. “You can have whatever fantasies you want about her. But I know that she was a whore. And she made sure to get pregnant right away and then tried to get me to marry her. As if I’d marry a whore.”

  Salander looked down the barrel of the gun and hoped he would relax his concentration for an instant.

  “The firebomb was sneaky. I hated you for that. But in time it didn’t matter. You weren’t worth the energy. If you’d only let things be.”

  “Bullshit. Bjurman asked you to fix me.”

  “That was another thing entirely. He needed a film that you have, so I made a little business deal.”

  “And you thought I’d give the film to you.”

  “Yes, my dear daughter. I’m convinced that you would have. You have no idea how cooperative people can be when Ronald asks for something. And especially when he starts up a chain saw and saws off one of your feet. In this case it would have been appropriate compensation—a foot for a foot.”

  Salander thought about Miriam at the hands of Niedermann in the warehouse. Zalachenko misinterpreted her expression.

  “You don’t have to worry. We don’t intend to cut you up. But tell me: did Bjurman rape you?”

  She said nothing.

  “Damn, what appalling taste he must have had. I read in the paper that you’re some sort of fucking dyke. That’s no surprise. There can’t be a man who’d want you.”

  Salander still said nothing.

  “Maybe I should ask Niedermann to screw you. You look as if you need it.” He thought about it. “Although Ronald doesn’t have sex with girls. He’s not a fairy. He just doesn’t have sex.”

  “Then maybe you should screw me,” Salander said to provoke him.

  Come closer. Make a mistake.

  “No, thanks all the same. That would be perverse.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “What are we waiting for?” Salander asked.

  “My companion is coming right back. He just had to move his car and run a little errand. Where’s your sister?”

  Salander shrugged.

  “Answer me.”

  “I don’t know and I honestly don’t give a shit.”

  He laughed again. “Sisterly love, eh? Camilla was always the one with the brains—you were just worthless filth. But I have to admit it’s quite satisfying to see you again up close.”

  “Zalachenko,” she said, “you’re a tiresome fuck. Was it Niedermann who shot Bjurman?”

  “Naturally. Ronald is the perfect soldier. He not only obeys orders, he also takes his own initiative when necessary.”

  “Where did you dig him up?”

  Zalachenko gave his daughter a peculiar look. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but decided against it. He glanced at the front door and then smiled at Salander.

  “You mean you haven’t worked it out yet?” he said. “According to Bjurman you’re supposed to be a good researcher.” Then Zalachenko roared with laughter. “We used to hang out together in Spain in the early nineties when I was convalescing from your little firebomb. He was twenty-two and became my arms and legs. He i
sn’t an employee … it’s a partnership. We have a flourishing business.”

  “Sex trafficking.”

  “You could say that we’ve diversified and deal with many different goods and services. Our business model is to stay in the background and never be seen. But you must have worked out who Ronald is.”

  Salander did not know what he was getting at.

  “He’s your brother,” Zalachenko said.

  “No,” Salander said, breathless.

  Zalachenko laughed again. But the barrel of the pistol was still pointed unnervingly at her.

  “Well, I should say he’s your half brother,” Zalachenko said. “The result of a brief diversion during an assignment I had in Germany in 1969.”

  “You’ve turned your son into a murderer.”

  “Oh no, I’ve only helped him realize his potential. He had the ability to kill long before I took over his training. And he’s going to run the family business long after I’m gone.”

  “Does he know that we’re half siblings?”

  “Of course. But if you think you can appeal to his brotherly love, forget it. I’m his family. You’re just a buzz on the horizon. And he isn’t your only sibling. You have at least four more brothers and three sisters in various countries. One of your other brothers is an idiot, but another actually has potential. He runs the Tallinn arm of the business. But Ronald is the only one who really lives up to the Zalachenko genes.”

  “I don’t suppose my sisters will get a role in the family business.”

  Zalachenko looked startled at the suggestion.

  “Zalachenko … you’re just an ordinary asshole who hates women. Why did you kill Bjurman?”

  “Bjurman was a moron. He couldn’t believe it when he learned you were my daughter. He was one of the few people in this country who knew about my background. I have to admit that it made me nervous when he contacted me out of the blue, but then everything turned out for the best. He died and you got the blame.”

  “But why shoot him?”

  “Well, it wasn’t really planned. It’s always useful to have a back door into Säpo. Even if I haven’t needed one for years. And even if he’s a moron. But that journalist in Enskede had somehow found a connection between him and me and called him just as Ronald was at his apartment. Bjurman panicked, went berserk. Ronald had to make a decision on the spot. He acted quite correctly.”

  Salander’s heart sank like a stone when her father confirmed what she had already suspected. Svensson had found a connection. She had talked to Svensson and Johansson for more than an hour. She’d liked the woman immediately but was a little cooler towards the journalist. He reminded her too much of Blomkvist—an insufferable do-gooder who thought he could change everything with a book. But she had recognized his honest intentions.

  It turned out that her visit had been a waste of time. They couldn’t point her to Zalachenko. Svensson had found his name and started digging, but he wasn’t able to identify him.

  Instead, she had made a devastating mistake. She knew that there had to be a connection between Bjurman and Zalachenko, and she asked questions about Bjurman in an attempt to ascertain whether Svensson had come across his name. He hadn’t, but his suspicions were instantly aroused. He zeroed right in on Bjurman and plied her with questions.

  She gave him very little, but he had understood that Salander was a player in the drama. He also realized that he had information she wanted. They had agreed to meet again for further discussions after Easter. Then Salander had gone home to bed. When she woke up the next morning, she was greeted by the news that two people had been murdered in an apartment in Enskede.

  She had given Svensson only one piece of usable information: the name Nils Bjurman. He must have called Bjurman the minute she left the apartment.

  And she was the link. If she hadn’t visited Svensson, he and Johansson would still be alive.

  Zalachenko said: “You have no idea how surprised we were when the police started hunting you for the murders.”

  Salander bit her lip.

  Zalachenko scrutinized her. “How did you find me?” he said.

  She shrugged.

  “Lisbeth … Ronald is coming back soon. I can tell him to break the bones in your body one by one until you answer. Save us the trouble.”

  “The P.O. box. I traced Niedermann’s car from the rental agency and waited until that pimply shit showed up and emptied the box.”

  “Aha. So simple. Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

  The muzzle of the pistol was still pointing at her chest.

  “Do you really think this is going to blow over?” Salander said. “You’ve made too many mistakes. The police are going to identify you.”

  “I know. Björck called yesterday and told me that a journalist from Millennium has been sniffing around and that it was just a matter of time. It’s possible that we’ll have to do something about that.”

  “It’ll be a long list,” Salander said. “Mikael Blomkvist and Erika Berger, the editor in chief, the managing editor, and half a dozen others at Millennium alone. And then you have Dragan Armansky and some of his staff at Milton Security. And Detective Inspector Bublanski and everyone involved in the investigation. How many people would you have to kill to cover this up? No, they’re going to get to you.”

  Zalachenko gave her a horrible twisted smile.

  “So what? I haven’t shot anybody, and there isn’t one shred of forensic evidence against me. They can identify whoever the hell they want. Believe me … they can search this house from top to bottom and they won’t find so much as a speck of dust that could connect me to any criminal activity. It was Säpo who locked you up in the asylum, not me, and it won’t take much for them to put all the papers on the table.”

  “Niedermann,” Lisbeth reminded him.

  “Early tomorrow morning Ronald is going on vacation abroad for a while and he’ll wait out whatever develops.”

  Zalachenko gave Salander a triumphant look.

  “You’re still going to be the prime suspect. So it’s best if you just disappear.”

  It was almost an hour before Niedermann returned. He was wearing boots.

  Salander glanced at the man who according to her father was her half brother. She couldn’t see the slightest resemblance. In fact, he was her diametrical opposite. But she felt very strongly that there was something wrong with Niedermann. His build, the weak face, and the voice that hadn’t really broken—they all seemed like genetic defects of some sort. He had evidently been insensitive to the Taser, and his hands were enormous. Nothing about Ronald Niedermann seemed quite normal.

  There are all sorts of genetic defects in the Zalachenko family, she thought bitterly.

  “Ready?” Zalachenko asked.

  Niedermann nodded. He held out his hand for the Sig Sauer.

  “I’ll come with you,” Zalachenko said.

  Niedermann hesitated. “It’s quite a walk.”

  “I’ll come anyway. Get my jacket.”

  Niedermann shrugged and did as he was told. Zalachenko put on his jacket and vanished into the next room for a while. Salander watched as Niedermann screwed what appeared to be a homemade silencer onto the gun.

  “All right, let’s go,” Zalachenko said from the door.

  Niedermann bent and pulled Salander to her feet. She looked him in the eye.

  “I’m going to kill you too,” she said.

  “You’re very sure of yourself. I’ll say that for you,” her father said.

  Niedermann smiled mildly and then pushed her towards the front door and out into the yard. He kept a firm grip on the back of her neck His fingers could reach almost all the way around it. He steered her towards the woods beyond the barn.

  They moved slowly and Niedermann stopped occasionally to let Zalachenko catch up. They both had powerful flashlights. When they reached the edge of the woods Niedermann let go of Salander’s neck. He kept the pistol trained on her back.

  They followed a diff
icult path for about four hundred yards. Salander stumbled twice, but each time was lifted to her feet.

  “Turn right here,” Niedermann said.

  After about fifty feet they came into a clearing. Lisbeth saw a hole in the ground. In the beam of Niedermann’s flashlight she saw a spade stuck in a mound of soil. Then she understood Niedermann’s assignment. He pushed her towards the hole and she tripped and went down on all fours with her hands buried deep in the sandy earth. She got up and gave him an expressionless look. Zalachenko was taking his time, and Niedermann waited patiently. The muzzle of the pistol was unswervingly aimed at her chest.

  Zalachenko was out of breath. It was more than a minute before he could speak.

  “I ought to say something, but I don’t think I have anything to say to you,” he said.

  “That’s fine by me,” Salander said. “I don’t have much to say to you either.” She gave him a lopsided smile.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Zalachenko said.

  “I’m glad that my very last act was to have you locked away forever,” Salander said. “The police will be here tonight.”

  “Bullshit. I was expecting you to try a bluff. You came here to kill me and nothing else. You didn’t say anything to anybody.”

  Salander’s smile broadened. She suddenly looked malevolent.

  “May I show you something, Pappa?”

  Slowly she reached into her left-hand pants pocket and took out a rectangular object. Niedermann watched her every move.

  “Every word you’ve said in the past hour has been broadcast over Internet radio.”

  She held up her Palm Tungsten T3 computer.

  Zalachenko’s brow furrowed where his eyebrows should have been.

  “Let’s see that,” he said, holding out his good hand.

  Salander lobbed the PDA to him. He caught it in midair.

  “Bullshit,” Zalachenko said. “This is an ordinary Palm.”

  As Niedermann bent to look at her computer, Salander flung a fistful of sand right into his eyes. He was blinded, but instinctively fired a round from his pistol. Salander had already moved two steps to one side and the bullet only tore a hole through the air where she had been standing. She grabbed the spade and swung it at his gun hand. She hit him with the sharp edge full force across the knuckles and saw his Sig Sauer fly in a wide arc away from them and into some bushes. Blood spurted from a gash above his index finger.