The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (196 page)

He drove slowly, refusing to acknowledge the stress he felt, and then waited until the printers had checked that they could read the CD. He made sure that the book would indeed be ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. The problem was not the printing but the binding, which could take time. But Jan Köbin, Hallvigs's manager, promised to deliver at least 500 copies of the first printing of 10,000 by that day.

Finally, Blomkvist made sure that everyone understood the need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had printed Blomkvist's book about Hans-Erik Wennerström under very similar circumstances.

Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry. He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his apartment to pack a change of clothes and toiletries. He drove to Stavsnäs wharf in Värmdö, where he parked the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn.

It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air and drank a Ramlösa. As always when a job was finished and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt empty.

He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water pipes, and changing the bedding up in the sleeping loft. He went to the grocery and bought everything he would need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and not thinking about anything in particular.

Just before 5:00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and met Figuerola.

“I thought you said you couldn't take time off,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“That's what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I've been working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I'm starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to recharge my batteries.”

“In Sandhamn?”

“I didn't tell him where I was going,” she said with a smile.

Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist's 270-square-foot cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom, and the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as they watched the parade
of sail boats on their way to or from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine.

“It's a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?” Figuerola said.

“Just the important ones.”

“Has Erika Berger been here?”

“Many times.”

“And Salander?”

“She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerström. And we spent Christmas here two years ago.”

“So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?”

“Erika is my best friend. We've been friends for twenty-five years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She's certainly unique, and she's the most antisocial person I've ever known. You could say that she made a big impression on me when we first met. I like her. She's a friend.”

“You don't feel sorry for her?”

“No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that's happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy for and solidarity with her.”

“But you aren't in love either with her or with Berger?”

He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a motorboat on the way to the marina.

“If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I'm in love with several people,” Blomkvist said.

“And now with me?”

Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him.

“Does it bother you?”

“That you've brought other women here? No. But it does bother me that I don't really know what's happening between us. And I don't think I can have a relationship with a man who screws around whenever he feels like it.”

“I'm not going to apologize for the way I've led my life.”

“And I guess that in some way I'm falling for you because you are who you are. It's easy to sleep with you because there's no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn't happen very often, and I hadn't planned it. And now we've gotten to the stage where I've become just another one of the girls you invite out here.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“You didn't have to come.”

“Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael …”

“I know.”

“I'm unhappy. I don't want to fall in love with you. It'll hurt far too much when it's over.”

“Listen, I've had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. My sister got our apartment and I got the cabin. Apart from some casual acquaintances in the early years, there are five women who have been here before you: Erika; Lisbeth; my ex-wife, who I was with in the eighties; a woman I was in a serious relationship with in the late nineties; and someone I met two years ago, whom I still see occasionally. It's sort of special circumstances. …”

“I bet it is.”

“I keep this cabin so that I can get away from the city and have some quiet time. I'm mostly here on my own. I read books, I write, and I relax and sit on the wharf and look at the boats. It's not a secret love nest.”

He stood up to get the bottle of wine he had put in the shade.

“I won't make any promises. My marriage broke up because Erika and I couldn't keep away from each other,” he said, and then he added in English, “Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.”

He filled their glasses.

“But you're the most interesting person I've met in a long time. It's as if our relationship took off at full speed from a standing start. I think I fell for you the moment you picked me up outside my apartment. The few times I've slept at my place since then, I've woken up in the middle of the night needing you. I don't know if I want a steady relationship, but I'm terrified of losing you.” He looked at her. “So what do you think we should do?”

“Let's think about things,” Figuerola said. “I'm really attracted to you too.”

“This is starting to get serious,” Blomkvist said.

She suddenly felt a great sadness. They did not say much for a long time. When it got dark they cleared the table, went inside, and closed the door.

On the Friday before the week of the trial, Blomkvist stopped at the Pressbyrån news-stand at Slussen and read the headlines for the morning papers.
Svenska Morgon-Posten
's CEO and chairman of the board, Magnus Borgsjö, had capitulated and tendered his resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsjö cited family reasons as the explanation for his unexpected resignation.
He would not comment on claims that Berger had also resigned after he ordered her to cover up a story about his involvement in the wholesale enterprise Vitavara Inc. But in a sidebar it was reported that the chair of Svenskt Näringsliv, the confederation of Swedish enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with businesses in Southeast Asia known to exploit child labour.

Blomkvist burst out laughing, and then he folded the morning papers and flipped open his Ericsson to call the woman who hosted
She
on TV4, who was in the middle of a lunchtime sandwich.

“Hello, darling,” Blomkvist said. “I'm assuming you'd still like dinner sometime.”

“Hi, Mikael,” she said, laughing. “Sorry, but you couldn't be further from my type.”

“Still, how about coming out with me this evening to discuss a job?”

“What do you have going?”

“Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about the Wennerström affair. I want to make a similar deal that will work just as well.”

“I'm all ears.”

“I can't tell you about it until we've agreed on the terms. I have a story in the works. We're going to publish a book and a themed issue of the magazine, and it's going to be huge. I'm offering you an exclusive look at all the material, provided you don't leak anything before we publish. This time the publication is extra complicated because it has to happen on a specific day.”

“How big is the story?”

“Bigger than Wennerström,” Blomkvist said. “Are you interested?”

“Are you serious? Where shall we meet?”

“How about Samir's Cauldron? Erika's going to sit in on the meeting.”

“What's going on with her? Is she back at
Millennium
now that she's been thrown out of SMP?”

“She didn't get thrown out. She resigned because of differences of opinion with Magnus Borgsjö.”

“He seems to be a real creep.”

“You're not wrong there,” Blomkvist said.

Clinton was listening to Verdi through his earphones. Music was pretty much the only thing left in life that could take him away from dialysis machines and the growing pain in the small of his back. He did not hum to the music. He closed his eyes and followed the notes with his right hand,
which hovered and seemed to have a life of its own alongside his disintegrating body.

That is how it goes. We are born. We live. We grow old. We die. He had played his part. All that remained was the disintegration.

He felt strangely satisfied with life.

He was playing for his friend Evert Gullberg.

It was Saturday, July 9. Only four days until the trial, and the Section could set about putting this whole wretched story behind them. He had gotten the message that morning. Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had known. When you fire a 9mm full-metal-jacketed bullet into your own temple, you expect to die. Yet it was three months before Gullberg's body gave up at last. That was probably due as much to chance as to the stubbornness with which the doctors had waged the battle for Gullberg's life. And it was the cancer, not the bullet, that had finally determined his end.

Gullberg's death had been painful, and that saddened Clinton. Although incapable of communicating with the outside world, he had at times been in a semi-conscious state, smiling when the hospital staff stroked his cheek or grunting when he seemed to be in pain. Sometimes he had tried to form words and even sentences, but nobody was able to understand anything he said.

He had no family, and none of his friends came to his sickbed. His last contact with life was an Eritrean night nurse by the name of Sara Kitama, who kept watch at his bedside and held his hand as he died.

Clinton realized that he would soon be following his former comrade-in-arms. No doubt about that. The likelihood of his surviving a transplant operation decreased each day. His liver and intestinal functions appeared to have declined at each examination.

He hoped to live past Christmas.

Yet he was content. He felt an almost spiritual, giddy satisfaction that his final days had involved such a sudden and surprising return to service.

It was a boon he could not have anticipated.

The last notes of Verdi faded away just as somebody opened the door to the small room in which he was resting at the Section's headquarters on Artillerigatan.

Clinton opened his eyes. It was Wadensjöö.

He had come to the conclusion that Wadensjöö was a deadweight. He was entirely unsuitable as director of the most important vanguard of Swedish national defence. He could not conceive how he and von Rottinger
could ever have made such a fundamental miscalculation as to imagine that Wadensjöö was the appropriate successor.

Wadensjöö was a warrior who needed a fair wind. In a crisis he was feeble and incapable of making a decision. A timid encumbrance lacking steel in his backbone who would most likely have remained in paralysis, incapable of action, and let the Section go under.

It was this simple. Some had it. Others would always falter when it came to the crunch.

“You wanted a word?”

“Sit down,” Clinton said.

Wadensjöö sat.

“I'm at a stage in my life when I can no longer waste time. I'll get straight to the point. When all this is over, I want you to resign from the management of the Section.”

“You do?”

Clinton tempered his tone.

“You're a good man, Wadensjöö. But unfortunately you were completely unsuited to succeed Gullberg. You should not have been given that responsibility. Von Rottinger and I were at fault when we failed to deal properly with the succession after I got sick.”

“You've never liked me.”

“You're wrong about that. You were an excellent administrator when von Rottinger and I were in charge of the Section. We would have been helpless without you, and I have great admiration for your patriotism. It's your inability to make decisions that lets you down.”

Wadensjöö smiled bitterly. “After this, I don't know if I even want to stay in the Section.”

“Now that Gullberg and von Rottinger are gone, I've had to make the crucial decisions myself,” Clinton said. “And you've obstructed every decision I've made during the past few months.”

“And I maintain that the decisions you've made are absurd. It's going to end in disaster.”

“That's possible. But your indecision would have guaranteed our collapse. Now at least we have a chance, and our plan seems to be working.
Millennium
doesn't know which way to turn. They may suspect that we're somewhere out here, but they lack documentation, and they have no way of finding it—or us. And we know at least as much as they do.”

Wadensjöö looked out the window and across the rooftops.

“The only thing we still have to do is to get rid of Zalachenko's daughter,”
Clinton said. “If anyone starts digging around in her past and listening to what she has to say, there's no knowing what might happen. But the trial starts in a few days, and then it'll be over. This time we have to bury her so deep that she'll never come back to haunt us.”