The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle

by Stieg Larsson

  “Those damned fuck-ups,” Clinton said.

  “Well, they seriously screwed up. We’ve had to let Blomkvist give us the slip for the moment, but no harm was actually done.”

  It was 11:00 by the time Linder and two hefty bodyguards from Milton Security’s personal protection unit collected Blomkvist and Berger from Kungsholmen.

  “You really do get around,” Linder said.

  “Sorry,” Berger said gloomily.

  Berger had been in a state of shock as they drove to St. Göran’s. It had dawned on her all of a sudden that both she and Blomkvist had very nearly been killed.

  Blomkvist had spent an hour in the ER having his head X-rayed and his face bandaged. His left middle finger was put in a splint. The end joint was badly bruised and he would lose the fingernail. Ironically, the main injury was caused when Andersson came to his rescue and pulled Nikolich off him. Blomkvist’s middle finger had been caught in the trigger guard of the M/45 and had snapped straight across. It hurt a lot, but the injury was hardly life-threatening.

  For Blomkvist the shock did not set in until two hours later, when he had arrived at Constitutional Protection at SIS and reported to Inspector Bublanski and Prosecutor Gustavsson. He began to shiver and felt so tired that he almost fell asleep between questions. At that point a certain amount of palavering ensued.

  “We don’t know what they’re planning, and we have no idea whether Mikael was the only intended victim,” Figuerola said. “Or whether Erika here was supposed to die too. We don’t know if they will try again or if anyone else at Millennium is being targeted. And why not kill Salander? After all, she’s the truly serious threat to the Section.”

  “I called my colleagues at Millennium while Mikael was being patched up,” Berger said. “Everyone’s going to lie extremely low until the magazine comes out. The office will be left unstaffed.”

  Edklinth’s immediate reaction had been to order bodyguard protection for Blomkvist and Berger. But on reflection he and Figuerola decided that it would not be the smartest move to contact SIS’s Personal Protection unit. Berger solved the problem by declining police protection. She called Armansky to explain what had happened, which was why, later that night, Linder was called in for duty.

  Blomkvist and Berger were lodged on the top floor of a safe house just beyond Drottningholm on the road to Ekerö. It was a large 1930s villa overlooking Lake Mälaren. It had an impressive garden, outbuildings, and extensive grounds. The estate was owned by Milton Security, but Martina Sjögren lived there. She was the widow of Hans Sjögren, their colleague of many years, who had died in an accident on assignment fifteen years earlier. After the funeral, Armansky had talked with Fru Sjögren and then hired her as housekeeper and general caretaker of the property. She lived rent-free in a wing of the ground floor and kept the top floor ready for those occasions, a few times each year, when Milton Security needed to hide away individuals who for real or imagined reasons feared for their safety.

  Figuerola went with them. She sank onto a chair in the kitchen and allowed Fru Sjögren to serve her coffee, while Berger and Blomkvist settled in upstairs and Linder checked the alarm and electronic surveillance equipment around the property.

  “There are toothbrushes and so on in the chest of drawers outside the bathroom,” Sjögren called up the stairs.

  Linder and Milton’s bodyguards installed themselves in rooms on the ground floor.

  “I’ve been on the go ever since I was woken at 4:00,” Linder said. “You can put together a watch schedule, but let me sleep till at least 5:00.”

  “You can sleep all night. We’ll take care of this,” one of the bodyguards said.

  “Thanks,” Linder said, and she went straight to bed.

  Figuerola listened absent-mindedly as the bodyguards switched on the motion detector in the courtyard and drew straws to see who would take the first watch. The one who lost made himself a sandwich and went into the TV room next to the kitchen. Figuerola studied the flowery coffee cups. She too had been on the go since early morning and was feeling fairly exhausted. She was just thinking about driving home when Berger came downstairs and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down across from Figuerola.

  “Mikael went out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow.”

  “Reaction to the adrenaline,” Figuerola said.

  “What happens now?”

  “You’ll have to lie low for a few days. Within a week this will all be over, whichever way it ends. How are you feeling?”

  “So-so. A bit shaky still. It’s not every day something like this happens. I just called my husband to explain why I wouldn’t be coming home.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m married to—”

  “I know who you’re married to.”

  Silence. Figuerola rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  “I have to go home and get some sleep,” she said.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, stop talking nonsense and go and lie down with Mikael,” Berger said.

  Figuerola looked at her.

  “Is it that obvious?” she said.

  Berger nodded.

  “Did Mikael say anything?”

  “Not a word. He’s generally rather discreet when it comes to his lady friends. But sometimes he’s an open book. And you’re clearly hostile every time you even look at me. The two of you obviously have something to hide.”

  “It’s my boss,” Figuerola said.

  “Where does he come into it?”

  “He’d fly off the handle if he knew that Mikael and I were—”

  “I can see that.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not your rival,” Berger said.

  “You’re not?”

  “Mikael and I sleep together now and then. But I’m not married to him.”

  “I heard that you two had a special relationship. He told me about you when we were out at Sandhamn.”

  “So you’ve been to Sandhamn? Then it is serious.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “Monica, I hope that you and Mikael … I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  Berger shrugged. “His ex-wife flipped out big time when Mikael was unfaithful with me. She threw him out. It was my fault. As long as Mikael is single and available, I would have no compunction. But I promised myself that if he was ever serious about someone, then I’d keep my distance.”

  “I don’t know if I dare count on him.”

  “Mikael is special. Are you in love with him?”

  “I think so.”

  “All right, then. Just don’t tell him too soon. Now go to bed.”

  Figuerola thought about it for a moment. Then she went upstairs, undressed, and crawled into bed next to Blomkvist. He mumbled something and put his arm around her waist.

  Berger sat alone in the kitchen for a long time. She felt deeply unhappy.

  CHAPTER 25

  Wednesday, July 13–Thursday, July 14

  Blomkvist had always wondered why the loudspeakers in the district court were so faint, discreet almost. He could hardly make out the words of the announcement that the trial of Lisbeth Salander would begin in courtroom 5 at 10:00. But he had arrived in plenty of time and positioned himself to wait right by the entrance to the courtroom. He was one of the first to be let in. He chose a seat in the public gallery on the left-hand side of the room, where he would have the best view of the defence table. The seats filled up fast. Media interest had steadily increased in the weeks leading up to the trial, and over the past week Prosecutor Ekström had been interviewed daily.

  Lisbeth Salander was charged with aggravated assault in the case of Carl-Magnus Lundin; with unlawful threats, attempted murder, and aggravated assault in the case of Karl Axel Bodin, alias Alexander Zalachenko, now deceased; with two counts of breaking and entering—the first at the summer cabin of the deceased lawyer Nils Erik Bjurman in Stallarholmen
, the second at Bjurman’s home on Odenplan; with the theft of a vehicle—a Harley-Davidson owned by one Sonny Nieminen of Svavelsjö MC; with three counts of possession of illegal weapons—a canister of Mace, a Taser, and a Polish P-83 Wanad, all found in Gosseberga; with the theft of or withholding of evidence—the formulation was imprecise but it referred to the documentation she had found in Bjurman’s summer cabin; and with a number of further misdemeanours. In all, sixteen charges had been filed against Lisbeth Salander.

  Ekström had been busy.

  He had also leaked information indicating that Salander’s mental state was cause for alarm. He cited first the forensic psychiatric report by Dr. Jesper H. Löderman that had been compiled at the time of her eighteenth birthday, and second, a report which, in accordance with a decision by the district court at a preliminary hearing, had been written by Dr. Peter Teleborian. Since the mentally ill girl had, true to form, refused categorically to speak to psychiatrists, the analysis was made on the basis of “observations” carried out while she was detained at Kronoberg prison in Stockholm during the month before her trial. Teleborian, who had many years of experience with the patient, had determined that Salander was suffering from a serious mental disturbance and employed terms such as psychopathy, pathological narcissism, and paranoid schizophrenia.

  The press had also reported that seven police interviews had been conducted with Salander. At each of these interviews the defendant had declined even to say good morning to those who were leading the interrogation. The first few interviews had been conducted by the Göteborg police; the remainder had taken place at police headquarters in Stockholm. The tape recordings of the interview protocol revealed that the police had used every means of persuasion and repeated questioning, but had not received the favour of a single reply.

  She had not even bothered to clear her throat.

  Occasionally Advokat Giannini’s voice could be heard on the tapes, at such points as she realized that her client evidently was not going to answer any questions. The charges against Salander were accordingly based exclusively on forensic evidence and on whatever facts the police investigation had been able to determine.

  Salander’s silence had at times placed her defence lawyer in an awkward position, since she was compelled to be almost as silent as her client. What Giannini and Salander discussed in private was confidential.

  Ekström made no secret of the fact that his primary objective was secure psychiatric care for the defendant; of secondary interest to him was a substantial prison sentence. The normal process was the reverse, but he believed that in her case there were such transparent mental disturbances and such an unequivocal forensic psychiatric assessment that he was left with no alternative. It was highly unusual for a court to decide against a forensic psychiatric assessment.

  He also believed that Salander’s declaration of incompetence should not be rescinded. In an interview he had explained with a concerned expression that in Sweden there were a number of sociopaths with such grave mental disturbances that they presented a danger to themselves as well as to others, and modern medicine could offer no alternative to keeping these individuals safely locked up. He cited the case from the seventies of a violent girl who had been a frequent focus of attention in the media, and who thirty years later was still in a secure psychiatric institution. Every endeavour to ease the restrictions had resulted in her launching reckless and violent attacks on relatives and caretakers, or in attempts to injure herself. Ekström was of the view that Salander suffered from a similar form of psychopathic disturbance.

  Media interest had also increased for the simple reason that Salander’s defence lawyer, Annika Giannini, had made not a single statement to the press. She had refused all requests to be interviewed, so that members of the media were, as they many times put it, “unable to have an opportunity to present the views of the other side of the case.” Journalists were therefore in a difficult situation: the prosecution kept on shovelling out information while the defence, uncharacteristically, gave not the slightest hint of Salander’s reaction to the charges against her, nor of what strategy the defence might employ.

  This state of affairs was commented on by the legal expert engaged to follow the trial in one of the evening newspapers. The expert had stated in his column that Advokat Giannini was a respected women’s rights lawyer, but that she had absolutely no experience in criminal law outside this case. He concluded that she was unsuitable for the purpose of defending Salander. From his sister Blomkvist had also learned that several distinguished lawyers had offered their services. Giannini had, on behalf of her client, courteously turned down every such proposal.

  As he waited for the trial to begin, Blomkvist glanced around at the other spectators. He caught sight of Armansky sitting near the exit and their eyes met for a moment.

  Ekström had a large stack of papers on his table. He greeted several journalists.

  Giannini sat at her table across from Ekström. She had her head down and was sorting through her papers. Blomkvist thought his sister looked a bit tense. Stage fright, he supposed.

  Then the judge, assessor, and lay assessors entered the courtroom. Judge Jörgen Iversen was a white-haired, fifty-seven-year-old man with a gaunt face and a spring in his step. Blomkvist had researched Iversen’s background and found that he was an exacting judge of long experience who had presided over many high-profile cases.

  Finally Salander was brought into the courtroom.

  Even though Blomkvist was used to Salander’s penchant for shocking clothing, he was amazed that his sister had allowed her to show up to the courtroom in a black leather miniskirt with frayed seams and a black top—with the legend I AM ANNOYED—which barely covered her many tattoos. She had ten piercings in her ears, and a ring through her left eyebrow. Her head was covered in three months’ worth of uneven stubble after her surgery. She wore grey lipstick and more black mascara than Blomkvist had ever seen her wear. Her eyebrows were heavily darkened. In the days when he and Salander had spent time together, she had shown almost no interest in make-up.

  She looked a bit vulgar, to put it mildly. It was almost a Goth look. She reminded him of a vampire in some pop-art movie from the sixties. Blomkvist was aware of some of the reporters in the press gallery catching their breath in astonishment or smiling broadly. They were at last getting a look at the scandal-ridden young woman they had written so much about, and she was certainly living up to all their expectations.

  Then he realized that Salander was in costume. Usually her style was sloppy and rather tasteless. Blomkvist had assumed that she was not really interested in fashion, but that she tried instead to accentuate her own individuality. Salander always seemed to mark her private space as hostile territory, and he had thought of the rivets in her leather jacket as a defence mechanism, like the quills of a hedgehog. To everyone around her it was as good a signal as any: Don’t try to touch me—it will hurt.

  But here in the district court she had exaggerated her style to the point of parody.

  It was no accident; it was part of Giannini’s strategy.

  If Salander had come in with her hair smoothed down and wearing a twin-set and pearls and sensible shoes, she would have came across as a con artist trying to sell a story to the court. It was a question of credibility. She had come as herself and no-one else. Way over the top—for clarity. She was not pretending to be someone she was not. Her message to the court was that she had no reason to be ashamed or to put on a show. If the court had a problem with her appearance, it was no concern of hers. The state had accused her of a multitude of things, and the prosecutor had dragged her into court. With her very appearance she had already indicated that she intended to brush aside the prosecutor’s accusations as nonsense.

  She moved with confidence and sat down next to her lawyer. She surveyed the spectators. There was no curiosity in her gaze. She seemed instead to be defiantly observing and registering those who had already convicted her in the press.

&
nbsp; It was the first time Blomkvist had seen her since she lay like a bloody rag doll on the bench in that kitchen in Gosseberga, and a year and a half or more since he had last seen her under normal circumstances. If the term “normal circumstances” could ever be used in connection with Salander. For a matter of seconds their eyes met. Hers lingered on him, but she betrayed no sign of recognition. Yet she did seem to study the bruises that covered Blomkvist’s cheek and temple and the surgical tape over his right eyebrow. Blomkvist thought he discerned the merest hint of a smile in her eyes but could not be sure he had not imagined it. Then Judge Iversen pounded his gavel and called the court to order.

  The spectators were allowed to be present in the courtroom for all of thirty minutes. They listened to Ekström’s introductory presentation of the case.

  Every reporter except Blomkvist was busily taking notes, even though by now all of them knew the charges Ekström intended to bring. Blomkvist had already written his story.

  Ekström’s introductory remarks went on for twenty-two minutes. Then it was Giannini’s turn. Her presentation took thirty seconds. Her voice was firm.

  “The defence rejects all the charges brought against my client except one. She admits to possession of an illegal weapon, that is, one spray canister of Mace. To all other counts, my client pleads not guilty of criminal intent. We will show that the prosecutor’s assertions are flawed and that my client has been subjected to grievous violations of her civil rights. I will demand that my client be acquitted of all charges, that her declaration of incompetence be revoked, and that she be released.”

  There was a murmuring from the press gallery. Advokat Giannini’s strategy had at last been revealed. It was obviously not what the reporters had been expecting. Most had speculated that Giannini would in some way exploit her client’s mental illness to her advantage. Blomkvist smiled.

  “I see,” Judge Iversen said, making a swift note. He looked at Giannini. “Are you finished?”