The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (173 page)

“This is how things stand,” he said. “Borgsjö is chairman and majority stockholder of a company called Svea Construction, which in turn is sole owner of a subsidiary called Vitavara Inc. They make toilets at a factory in Vietnam which has been condemned by the UN for using child labour.”

“Run that by me again.”

Blomkvist told her the details of the story that Cortez had compiled. He opened his laptop bag and took out a copy of the documentation. Berger read slowly through the article. Finally she looked up and met Blomkvist's eyes. She felt unreasoning panic mixed with disbelief.

“Why the hell is it that the first thing
Millennium
does after I leave is to start running background checks on
SMP
's board members?”

“That's not what happened, Ricky.” He explained how the story had developed.

“And how long have you known about this?”

“Since today; since this afternoon. I feel deeply uncomfortable about how this has unfolded.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I don't know. We have to publish. We can't make an exception just because it deals with your boss. But not one of us wants to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “We're all extremely unhappy about the situation. Henry especially.”

“I'm still a member of
Millennium
's board. I'm a part owner. It's going to be viewed as—”

“I know exactly how it's going to be viewed. You're going to land in a shitload of trouble at
SMP.
”

Berger felt weariness settling over her. She clenched her teeth and stifled an impulse to ask Blomkvist to sit on the story.

“Goddamnit,” she said. “And there's no doubt in your mind … ?”

Blomkvist shook his head. “I spent the whole afternoon going over Henry's documentation. We have Borgsjö ready for the slaughter.”

“So what are you planning, and when?”

“What would you have done if we'd uncovered this story two months ago?”

Berger looked intently at her friend, who had also been her lover over the past twenty years. Then she lowered her eyes.

“You know what I would have done.”

“This is a disastrous coincidence. None of it is directed at you. I'm terribly, terribly sorry. That's why I insisted on seeing you at once. We have to decide what to do.”

“We?”

“Listen, the story was slated to run in the June issue. I've killed that idea. The earliest it could come out is August, and it can be postponed further if you need more time.”

“I understand.” Her voice took on a bitter tone.

“I suggest we don't decide anything now. Take the documentation and go home and think it over. Don't do anything until we can agree on a common strategy. We have time.”

“A common strategy?”

“You either have to resign from
Millennium
's board before we publish, or resign from
SMP
. You can't wear both hats.”

She nodded. “I'm so linked to
Millennium
that no-one will believe I didn't have a hand in this, whether I resign or not.”

“There is an alternative. You could take the story to
SMP
and confront Borgsjö and demand his resignation. I'm quite sure Henry would agree to that. But don't do anything until we all agree.”

“So I start by getting the person who recruited me fired.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He isn't a bad person.”

“I believe you. But he's greedy.”

Berger got up. “I'm going home.”

“Ricky, I—”

She interrupted him. “I'm just dead tired. Thanks for warning me. I'll let you know.”

She left without kissing him, and he had to pay the bill.

Berger had parked 200 yards from the restaurant and was halfway to her car when she felt such strong heart palpitations that she had to stop and lean against a wall. She felt sick.

She stood for a long time breathing in the mild May air. She had been working fifteen hours a day since May 1. That was almost three weeks. How would she feel after three years? Was that how Morander had felt before he dropped dead in the newsroom?

After ten minutes she went back to Samir's Cauldron and ran into Blomkvist as he was coming out the door. He stopped in surprise.

“Erika …”

“Mikael, don't say a word. We've been friends so long—nothing can destroy that. You're my best friend, and this feels exactly like the time you disappeared to Hedestad two years ago, only vice versa. I feel stressed out and unhappy.”

He put his arms around her. She felt tears in her eyes.

“Three weeks at
SMP
have already done me in,” she said.

“Now, now. It takes more than that to do in Erika Berger.”

“Your apartment is compromised. And I'm too tired to drive home. I'd fall asleep at the wheel and die in a crash. I've decided. I'm going to walk to the Scandic Crown and book a room. Come with me.”

“It's called the Hilton now.”

“Same difference.”

They walked the short distance without talking. Blomkvist had his arm around her shoulder. Berger glanced at him and saw that he was just as tired as she was.

They went straight to the front desk, took a double room, and paid with Berger's credit card. When they got to the room, they undressed, showered, and crawled into bed. Berger's muscles ached as though she had just run the Stockholm marathon. They cuddled for a while and then both fell asleep in seconds.

Neither of them had noticed the man in the lobby who was watching them as they stepped into the elevator.

Salander spent most of Wednesday night and early Thursday morning reading Blomkvist's articles and the chapters of the
Millennium
book that were more or less finished. Since Prosecutor Ekström had tentatively referred to a trial in July, Blomkvist had set June 20 as his deadline for going to press. That meant that Blomkvist had about a month to finish writing and patching up all the holes in his text.

She could not imagine how he could finish in time, but that was his problem, not hers. Her problem was how to respond to his questions.

She took her Palm and logged on to the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] to check whether he had put up anything new in the past twenty-four hours. He had not. She opened the document that he had called [Central Questions]. She knew the text by heart already, but she read through it again anyway.

He outlined the strategy that Giannini had already explained to her. When her lawyer spoke to her she had listened with only half an ear, almost as though it had nothing to do with her. But Blomkvist, knowing things about her that Giannini did not, could present a more forceful strategy. She skipped down to the fourth paragraph.

She disconnected and looked up at the ceiling. Blomkvist was asking her for permission to tell the truth in his book. He was not going to mention the fact of Bjurman's raping her, and he had already written that section. He had filled in the gaps by saying that Bjurman had made a deal with Zalachenko which collapsed when Bjurman lost control. Therefore Niedermann was obliged to kill him. Blomkvist did not speculate about Bjurman's motives.

Kalle Fucking Blomkvist was complicating life for her.

At 2:00 in the morning she opened the word-processing programme on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took out the stylus, and began to tap on the letters on the digital keypad.

It was a slow process, writing with the stylus on the keypad. She thought through each sentence before she tapped it in. She did not make a single change to what she had written. She worked until 4:00, then turned off her computer and put it in the charger in the recess at the back of her bedside table. By that time she had produced a document corresponding to two single-spaced pages.

Twice since midnight the duty nurse had put her head around the door, but Salander could hear her a long way off, and even before she turned the key the computer was hidden and the patient asleep.

•    •    •

Berger woke at 7:00. She felt far from rested, but she had slept uninterrupted for eight hours. She glanced at Blomkvist, who was still sleeping soundly beside her.

She turned on her mobile to check for messages. Greger Beckman, her husband, had called eleven times.
Shit. I forgot to call
. She dialled the number and explained where she was and why she had not come home. He was angry.

“Erika, don't do that again. It has nothing to do with Mikael, but I've been worried sick all night. I was terrified that something had happened. You know you have to call and tell me if you're not coming home. You can't ever forget something like that.”

Beckman was completely OK with the fact that Blomkvist was his wife's lover. Their affair was carried on with his assent. But every time she had decided to sleep at Blomkvist's, she had called her husband to tell him.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I just collapsed in exhaustion last night.”

He grunted.

“Try not to be furious with me, Greger. I can't handle it right now. You can give me hell tonight.”

He grunted some more and promised to scold her when she got home.

“OK. How's Mikael doing?”

“He's dead to the world.” She burst out laughing. “Believe it or not, we were fast asleep moments after we got here. That's never happened.”

“This is serious, Erika. I think you ought to see a doctor.”

When she hung up she called the office and left a message for Fredriksson. Something had come up and she would be in a little later than usual. She asked him to cancel a meeting she had arranged with the culture editor.

She found her shoulder bag, ferreted out a toothbrush, and went to the bathroom. Then she got back into bed and woke Blomkvist.

“Hurry up—go and wash your face and brush your teeth.”

“What … Huh?” He sat up and looked around in bewilderment. She had to remind him that he was at the Slussen Hilton. He nodded.

“So. To the bathroom with you.”

“Why the hurry?”

“Because as soon as you come back I need you to make love to me.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a meeting at 11:00 that I can't postpone. I have to look presentable, and it'll take me at least half an hour to put on my face. And I'll have to buy a new shift dress or something on the way to work. That gives us only two hours to make up for a whole lot of lost time.”

Blomkvist headed for the bathroom.

•    •    •

Holmberg parked his father's Ford in the drive of former prime minister Thorbjörn Fälldin's house in Ås just outside Ramvik in Härnösand county. He got out of the car and looked around. At the age of seventy-nine, Fälldin could hardly still be an active farmer, and Holmberg wondered who did the sowing and harvesting. He knew he was being watched from the kitchen window. That was the custom in the village. He himself had grown up in Hälledal outside Ramvik, very close to Sandöbron, which was one of the most beautiful places in the world. At least Holmberg thought so.

He knocked on the front door.

The former leader of the Centre Party looked old, but he seemed alert, and vigorous.

“Hello, Thorbjörn. My name is Jerker Holmberg. We've met before but it's been a few years. My father is Gustav Holmberg, a delegate for the Centre in the seventies and eighties.”

“Yes, I recognize you, Jerker. Hello. You're a policeman down in Stockholm now, aren't you? It must be ten or fifteen years since I last saw you.”

“I think it's probably longer than that. May I come in?”

Holmberg sat at the kitchen table while Fälldin poured them some coffee.

“I hope all's well with your father. But that's not why you came, is it?”

“No. Dad's doing fine. He's out repairing the roof of the cabin.”

“How old is he now?”

“He turned seventy-one two months ago.”

“Is that so?” Fälldin said, joining Holmberg at the kitchen table. “So what's this visit all about then?”

Holmberg looked out the window and saw a magpie land next to his car and peck at the ground. Then he turned to Fälldin.

“I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I have a big problem. It's possible that when this conversation is over, I'll be fired from my job. I'm here on a work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski of the violent crimes division in Stockholm, doesn't know I'm here.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Just say that I'd be on very thin ice if my superiors found out about this visit.”

“I understand.”

“On the other hand, I'm afraid that if I don't do something, there's a risk
that a woman's rights will be shockingly violated, and to make matters worse, it'll be the second time it's happened.”

“You'd better tell me the whole story.”

“It's about a man named Alexander Zalachenko. He was an agent for the Soviets' GRU and defected to Sweden on Election Day in 1976. He was given asylum and began to work for Säpo. I have reason to believe that you know his story.”