Tuesday, July 29–

Friday, October 24

Blomkvist had been poring over Salander’s computer printouts for three days

—boxes full of papers. The problem was that the subjects kept changing all the time. An option deal in London. A currency deal in Paris through an agent. A company with a post-office box in Gibraltar. A sudden doubling of funds in an account at the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York.

And then all those puzzling question marks: a trading company with 200,000 kronor in an untouched account registered five years earlier in Santiago, Chile—one of nearly thirty such companies in twelve different countries—and not a hint of what type of activity was involved. A dormant company? Waiting for what? A front for some other kind of activity? The computer gave no clue as to what was going on in Wennerström’s mind or what may have been perfectly obvious to him and so was never formulated in an electronic document.

Salander was persuaded that most of these questions would never be answered. They could see the message, but without a key they would never be able to interpret the meaning. Wennerström’s empire was like an onion from which one layer after another could be removed; a labyrinth of enterprises owned by one another. Companies, accounts, funds, securities. They reckoned that nobody—perhaps not even Wennerström himself—could have a complete overview. Wennerström’s empire had a life of its own.

But there was a pattern, or at least a hint of a pattern. A labyrinth of enterprises owned by each other. Wennerström’s empire was variously valued at between 100 and 400 billion kronor, depending on whom you asked and how it was calculated. But if companies own each other’s assets—what then would be their value?

They had left Hedeby Island in great haste early in the morning after Salander dropped the bomb that was now occupying every waking moment of Blomkvist’s life. They drove to Salander’s place and spent two days in front of her computer while she guided him through Wennerström’s universe. He

had plenty of questions. One of them was pure curiosity.

“Lisbeth, how are you able to operate his computer, from a purely practical point of view?”

“It’s a little invention that my friend Plague came up with. Wennerström has an IBM laptop that he works on, both at home and at the office. That means that all the information is on a single hard drive. He has a broadband connection to his property at home. Plague invented a type of cuff that you fasten around the broadband cable, and I’m testing it out for him. Everything that Wennerström sees is registered by the cuff, which forwards the data to a server somewhere else.”

“Doesn’t he have a firewall?” Salander smiled.

“Of course he has a firewall. But the point is that the cuff also functions as a type of firewall. It takes a while to hack the computer this way. Let’s say that Wennerström gets an email; it goes first to Plague’s cuff and we can read it before it even passes through his firewall. But the ingenious part is that the email is rewritten and a few bytes of source code are added. This is repeated every time he downloads anything to his computer. Pictures are even better. He does a lot of surfing on the Net. Each time he picks up a porn picture or opens a new home page, we add several rows of source code. After a while, in several hours or several days, depending on how much he uses the computer, Wennerström has downloaded an entire programme of approximately three megabytes in which each bit is linked to the next bit.”

“And?”

“When the last bits are in place, the programme is integrated with his Internet browser. To him it will look as though his computer has locked up, and he has to restart it. During the restart a whole new software programme is installed. He uses Internet Explorer. The next time he starts Explorer, he’s really starting a whole different programme that’s invisible on his desktop and looks and functions just like Explorer, but it also does a lot of other things. First it takes control of his firewall and makes sure that everything is working. Then it starts to scan the computer and transmits bits of information every time he clicks the mouse while he’s surfing. After a while, again depending on how much he surfs, we’ve accumulated a complete mirror image of the contents of his hard drive on a server somewhere. And then it’s time for the HT.”

“HT?”

“Sorry. Plague calls it the HT. Hostile Takeover.” “I see.”

“The really subtle thing is what happens next. When the structure is ready, Wennerström has two complete hard drives, one on his own machine and one on our server. The next time he boots up his computer, it’s actually the

mirrored computer that’s starting. He’s no longer working on his own computer; in reality he’s working on our server. His computer will run a little slower, but it’s virtually not noticeable. And when I’m connected to the server, I can tap his computer in real time. Each time Wennerström presses a key on his computer I see it on mine.”

“Your friend is also a hacker?”

“He was the one who arranged the telephone tap in London. He’s a little out of it socially, but on the Net he’s a legend.”

“OK,” Blomkvist said, giving her a resigned smile. “Question number two: why didn’t you tell me about Wennerström earlier?”

“You never asked me.”

“And if I never did ask you—let’s suppose that I never met you—you would have sat here knowing that Wennerström was a gangster while Millennium went bankrupt?”

“Nobody asked me to expose Wennerström for what he is,” Salander replied in a know-it-all voice.

“Yes, but what if?”

“I did tell you,” she said. Blomkvist dropped the subject.

Salander burned the contents of Wennerström’s hard drive—about five gigabytes—on to ten CDs, and she felt as if she had more or less moved into Blomkvist’s apartment. She waited patiently, answering all the questions he asked.

“I can’t understand how he can be so fucking dim to put all his dirty laundry on one hard drive,” he said. “If it ever got into the hands of the police.

. .”

“People aren’t very rational. He has to believe that the police would never think of confiscating his computer.”

“Above suspicion. I agree that he’s an arrogant bastard, but he must have security consultants telling him how to handle his computer. There’s material on this machine going all the way back to 1993.”

“The computer itself is relatively new. It was manufactured a year ago, but he seems to have transferred all his old correspondence and everything else on to the hard drive instead of storing it on CDs. But at least he’s using an encryption programme.”

“Which is totally useless if you’re inside his computer and reading the passwords every time he types them in.”

After they’d been back in Stockholm for four days, Malm called on

Blomkvist’s mobile at 3:00 in the morning.

“Henry Cortez was at a bar with his girlfriend tonight.” “Uh-huh,” Blomkvist said, sleepily.

“On the way home they ended up at Centralen’s bar.” “Not a very good place for a seduction.”

“Listen. Dahlman is on holiday. Henry discovered him sitting at a table with some guy.”

“And?”

“Henry recognised the man from his byline pic. Krister Söder.” “I don’t think I recognise the name, but . . .”

“He works for Monopoly Financial Magazine, which is owned by the Wennerström Group.”

Blomkvist sat up straight in bed. “Are you there?”

“I’m here. That might not mean anything. Söder is a journalist, and he might be an old friend.”

“Maybe I’m being paranoid. But a while ago Millennium bought a story from a freelancer. The week before we were going to publish it, Söder ran an exposé that was almost identical. It was the story about the mobile telephone manufacturer and the defective component.”

“I hear what you’re saying. But that sort of thing does happen. Have you talked to Erika?”

“No, she’s not back until next week.”

“Don’t do anything. I’ll call you back later,” Blomkvist said. “Problems?” Salander asked.

“Millennium,” Blomkvist said. “I have to go there. Want to come along?”

The editorial offices were deserted. It took Salander three minutes to crack the password protection on Dahlman’s computer, and another two minutes to transfer its contents to Blomkvist’s iBook.

Most of Dahlman’s emails were probably on his own laptop, and they did not have access to it. But through his desktop computer at Millennium, Salander was able to discover that Dahlman had a Hotmail account in addition to his millennium.se address. It took her six minutes to crack the code and download his correspondence from the past year. Five minutes later Blomkvist had evidence that Dahlman had leaked information about the situation at Millennium and kept the editor of Monopoly Financial Magazine updated on which stories Berger was planning for which issues. The spying had been going on at least since the previous autumn.

They turned off the computers and went back to Mikael’s apartment to sleep for a few hours. He called Christer Malm at 10:00 a.m.

“I have proof that Dahlman is working for Wennerström.” “I knew it. Great, I’m going to fire that fucking pig today.” “No, don’t. Don’t do anything at all.”

“Nothing?”

“Christer, trust me. Is Dahlman still on holiday?” “Yes, he’s back on Monday.”

“How many are in the office today?” “Well, about half.”

“Can you call a meeting for 2:00? Don’t say what it’s about. I’m coming over.”

 

 

There were six people around the conference table. Malm looked tired. Cortez looked like someone newly in love, the way that only twenty-four-year-olds can look. Nilsson looked on edge—Malm had not told anyone what the meeting was about, but she had been with the company long enough to know that something out of the ordinary was going on, and she was annoyed that she had been kept out of the loop. The only one who looked the same as usual was the part-timer Ingela Oskarsson, who worked two days a week dealing with simple administrative tasks, the subscriber list and the like; she had not looked truly relaxed since she became a mother two years ago. The other part- timer was the freelance reporter Lotta Karim, who had a contract similar to Cortez’s and had just started back to work after her holiday. Malm had also managed to get Magnusson to come in, although he was still on holiday.

Blomkvist began by greeting everyone warmly and apologising for being so long absent.

“What we’re going to discuss today is something that Christer and I haven’t taken up with Erika, but I can assure you that in this case I speak for her too. Today we’re going to determine Millennium’s future.”

He paused to let the words sink in. No-one asked any questions.

“The past year has been rough. I’m surprised and proud that none of you has reconsidered and found a job somewhere else. I have to assume that either you’re stark raving mad or wonderfully loyal and actually enjoy working on this magazine. That’s why I’m going to lay the cards on the table and ask you for one last effort.”

“One last effort?” Nilsson said. “That sounds as if you’re thinking of shutting down the magazine.”

“Exactly, Monika,” Blomkvist said. “And thank you for that. When she gets back Erika is going to gather us all together for a gloomy editorial meeting and to tell us that Millennium will fold at Christmas and that you’re

all fired.”

Now alarm began spreading through the group. Even Malm thought for a moment that Blomkvist was serious. Then they all noticed his broad smile.

“What you have to do this autumn is play a double game. The disagreeable fact is that our dear managing editor, Janne Dahlman, is moonlighting as an informer for Hans-Erik Wennerström. This means that the enemy is being kept informed of exactly what’s going on in our editorial offices. This explains a number of setbacks we’ve experienced. You especially, Sonny, when advertisers who seemed positive pulled out without warning.”

Dahlman had never been popular in the office, and the revelation was apparently not a shock to anyone. Blomkvist cut short the murmuring that started up.

“The reason that I’m telling you this is because I have absolute confidence in all of you. I know that you’ve all got your heads screwed on straight. That’s why I also know that you’ll play along with what takes place this autumn. It’s very important that Wennerström believes that Millennium is on the verge of collapse. It will be your job to make sure he does.”

“What’s our real situation?” Cortez said.

“OK, here it is: by all accounts Millennium should be on its way to the grave. I give you my word that that’s not going to happen. Millennium is stronger today than it was a year ago. When this meeting is over, I’m going to disappear again for about two months. Towards the end of October I’ll be back. Then we’re going to clip Wennerström’s wings.”

“How are we going to do that?” Nilsson said.

“Sorry, Monika. I don’t want to give you the details, but I’m writing a new story, and this time we’re going to do it right. I’m thinking of having roast Wennerström for the Christmas party and various critics for dessert.”

The mood turned cheerful. Blomkvist wondered how he would have felt if he were one of them sitting listening to all this. Dubious? Most likely. But apparently he still had some “trust capital” among Millennium’s small group of employees. He held up his hand.

“If this is going to work, it’s important that Wennerström believes that Millennium is on the verge of collapse because I don’t want him to start some sort of retaliation or indeed get rid of the evidence which we mean to expose. So we’re going to start writing a script that you’ll follow during the coming months. First of all, it’s important that nothing we discuss here today is written down or is referred to in emails. We don’t know to what if any extent Dahlman has been digging around in our computers, and I’ve become aware that it’s alarmingly simple to read co-workers’ private email. So—we’re doing to do this orally. If you feel the need to air anything, go and see Christer at home. Very discreetly.”

Blomkvist wrote “no email” on the whiteboard.

“Second, I want you to start squabbling among yourselves, complaining about me when Dahlman is around. Don’t exaggerate. Just give your natural bitchy selves full rein. Christer, I want you and Erika to have a serious disagreement. Use your imagination and be secretive about the cause.”

He wrote “start bitching” on the whiteboard.

“Third, when Erika comes home, her job will be to see to it that Janne Dahlman thinks our agreement with the Vanger Corporation—which is in fact giving us its full support—has fallen through because Henrik Vanger is seriously ill and Martin Vanger died in a car crash.”

He wrote the word “disinformation.”

“But the agreement really is solid?” Nilsson said.

“Believe me,” Blomkvist said, “the Vanger Corporation will go to great lengths to ensure that Millennium survives. In a few weeks, let’s say at the end of August, Erika will call a meeting to warn you about layoffs. You all know that it’s a scam, and that the only one who’s going to be leaving is Dahlman. But start talking about looking for new jobs and say what a lousy reference it is to have Millennium on your C.V.”

“And you really think that this game will end up saving Millennium?” Magnusson said.

“I know it will. And Sonny, I want you to put together a fake report each month showing falling advertising sales and showing that the number of subscribers has also dropped.”

“This sounds fun,” Nilsson said. “Should we keep it internal here in the office, or should we leak it to other media too?”

“Keep it internal. If the story shows up anywhere, we’ll know who put it there. In a very few months, if anyone asks us about it, we’ll be able to tell them: you’ve been listening to baseless rumours, and we’ve never considered closing Millennium down. The best thing that could happen is for Dahlman to go out and tip off the other mass media. If you’re able to give Dahlman a tip about a plausible but fundamentally idiotic story, so much the better.”

They spent an hour concocting a script and dividing up the various roles.

After the meeting Blomkvist had coffee with Malm at Java on Horngatspuckeln.

“Christer, it’s really important that you pick up Erika at the airport and fill her in. You have to convince her to play along with the game. If I know her, she’ll want to confront Dahlman instantly—but that can’t happen. I don’t want Wennerström to hear any kind of buzz and then manage to bury the evidence.”

“Will do.”

“And see to it that Erika stays away from her email until she installs the

PGP encryption programme and learns how to use it. It’s pretty likely that through Dahlman, Wennerström is able to read everything we email to each other. I want you and everyone else in the editorial offices to install PGP. Do it in a natural way. Get the name of a computer consultant to contact and have him come over to inspect the network and all the computers in the office. Let him install the software as if it were a perfectly natural part of the service.”

“I’ll do my best. But Mikael—what are you working on?” “Wennerström.”

“What exactly?”

“For the time being, that has to remain my secret.”

Malm looked uncomfortable. “I’ve always trusted you, Mikael. Does this mean that you don’t trust me?”

Blomkvist laughed.

“Of course I trust you. But right now I’m involved in rather serious criminal activities that could get me two years in prison. It’s the nature of my research that’s a little dubious . . . I’m playing with the same underhand methods as Wennerström uses. I don’t want you or Erika or anyone else at Millennium to be involved in any way.”

“You’re making me awfully nervous.”

“Stay cool, Christer, and tell Erika that the story is going to be a big one.

Really big.”

“Erika will insist on knowing what you’re working on . . .” Mikael thought for a second. Then he smiled.

“Tell her that she made it very clear to me in the spring when she signed a contract with Henrik Vanger behind my back that I’m now just an ordinary mortal freelancer who no longer sits on the board and has no influence on Millennium policy. Which means that I no longer have any obligation to keep her informed. But I promise that if she behaves herself, I’ll give her first option on the story.”

“She’s going to go through the roof,” Malm said cheerfully.

Blomkvist knew that he had not been entirely honest with Malm. He was deliberately avoiding Berger. The most natural thing would have been to contact her at once and tell her about the information in his possession. But he did not want to talk to her. A dozen times he had stood with his mobile in his hand, starting to call her. Each time he changed his mind.

He knew what the problem was. He could not look her in the eyes.

The cover-up in which he had participated in Hedestad was unforgivable from a professional point of view. He had no idea how he could explain it to her without lying, and if there was one thing he had never thought of doing, it was lying to Erika Berger.

Above all, he did not have the energy to deal with that problem at the same time as he was tackling Wennerström. So he put off seeing her, turned off his mobile, and avoided talking to her. But he knew that the reprieve could only be temporary.

Right after the editorial meeting, Mikael moved out to his cabin in Sandhamn; he hadn’t been there in over a year. His baggage included two boxes of printouts and the CDs that Salander had given him. He stocked up on food, locked the door, opened his iBook, and started writing. Each day he took a short walk, bought the newspapers, and shopped for groceries. The guest marina was still filled with yachts, and young people who had borrowed their father’s boat were usually sitting in the Divers’ Bar, drinking themselves silly. Blomkvist scarcely took in his surroundings. He sat in front of his computer more or less from the moment he opened his eyes until he fell into bed at night, exhausted.

Encrypted email from editor in chief

<erika.berger@millennium.se> to publisher on leave of absence

<mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

Mikael. I want to know what’s going on—good grief, I’ve come back from holiday to total chaos. The news about Janne Dahlman and this double game you’ve come up with. Martin Vanger dead. Harriet Vanger alive. What’s going on in Hedeby? Where are you? Is there a story? Why don’t you answer your mobile?/E.

P.S. I understood the insinuation that Christer relayed with such glee. You’re going to have to eat your words. Are you seriously cross with me?

P.P.S. I am trusting you for the time being, but you are going to have to give proof—you remember, the stuff that stands up in court—on J.D.

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

Hi Ricky. No, for God’s sake, I’m not cross. Forgive me for not keeping you updated, but the past few months of my life have been topsy-turvy. I’ll tell you everything when we see each other, but not by email. I’m at Sandhamn. There is a story, but the story is not Harriet Vanger. I’m going to be glued to my computer here for a while. Then it’ll be over. Trust me. Hugs and kisses. M.

 

 

From <erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>: Sandhamn? I’m coming to see you immediately.

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

Not right now. Wait a couple of weeks, at least until I’ve got the story organised. Besides, I’m expecting company.

 

 

From <erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

In that case, of course I’ll stay away. But I have to know what’s going on. Henrik Vanger has become CEO again, and he doesn’t answer my calls. If the deal with Vanger is off, I absolutely need to know. Ricky

P.S. Who is she?

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>

First of all: no question of Henrik pulling out. But he is still working only a short day, and I’m guessing that the chaos after Martin’s death and Harriet’s resurrection is taking its toll on his strength.

Second: Millennium will survive. I’m working on the most important report of our lives, and when we publish it, it’s going to sink Wennerström once and for all.

Third: My life is up and down right now, but as for you and me and Millennium—nothing has changed. Trust me. Kisses / Mikael.

P.S. I’ll introduce you as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

When Salander went out to Sandhamn she found an unshaven and hollow- eyed Blomkvist, who gave her a quick hug and asked her to make some coffee and wait while he finished what he was writing.

Salander looked around his cabin and decided almost at once that she liked it. It was right next to a jetty, with the water three paces from the door. It was only fifteen by eighteen feet but it had such a high ceiling that there was space for a sleeping loft. She could stand up straight there, just. Blomkvist would have to stoop. The bed was wide enough for both of them.

The cabin had one large window facing the water, right next to the front door. That was where his kitchen table stood, doubling as his desk. On the wall near the desk was a shelf with a CD player and a big collection of Elvis and hard rock, which was not Salander’s first choice.

In a corner was a woodstove made of soapstone with a glazed front. The rest of the sparse furnishings consisted of a large wardrobe for clothes and

linen and a sink that also functioned as a washing alcove behind a shower curtain. Near the sink was a small window on one side of the cabin. Under the spiral stairs to the loft Blomkvist had built a separate space for a composting toilet. The whole cabin was arranged like the cabin on a boat, with clever cubbyholes for stowing things.

During her personal investigation of Mikael Blomkvist, Salander had found out that he had remodelled the cabin and built the furniture himself—a conclusion drawn from the comments of an acquaintance who had sent Mikael an email after visiting Sandhamn and was impressed by his handiwork. Everything was clean, unpretentious, and simple, bordering on spartan. She could see why he loved this cabin in Sandhamn so much.

After two hours she managed to distract Mikael enough that he turned off his computer in frustration, shaved, and took her out for a guided tour. It was raining and windy, and they quickly retreated to the inn. Blomkvist told her what he was writing, and Salander gave him a CD with updates from Wennerström’s computer.

Then she took him up to the loft and managed to get his clothes off and distract him even further. She woke up late that night to find herself alone. She peered down from the loft and saw him sitting hunched over his computer. She lay there for a long time, leaning on one hand, watching him. He seemed happy, and she too felt strangely content with life.

Salander stayed only five days before she went back to Stockholm to do a job for Armansky. She spent eleven days on the assignment, made her report, and then returned to Sandhamn. The stack of printed pages next to Mikael’s iBook was growing.

This time she stayed for four weeks. They fell into a routine. They got up at 8:00, ate breakfast, and spent an hour together. Then Mikael worked intently until late in the afternoon, when they took a walk and talked. Salander spent most of the days in bed, either reading books or surfing the Net using Blomkvist’s ADSL modem. She tried not to disturb him during the day. They ate dinner rather late and only then did Salander take the initiative and force him up to the sleeping loft, where she saw to it that he devoted all his attention to her.

It was as if she were on the very first holiday of her life.

Encrypted email from

<erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

Hi M. It’s now official. Janne Dahlman has resigned and starts working at Monopoly Financial Magazine in three weeks. I’ve done as you asked and said nothing, and everyone is going around

playing monkey games. E.

P.S. They seem to be having fun. Henry and Lotta had a fight and started throwing things at each other a couple of days ago. They’ve been messing with Dahlman’s head so blatantly that I can’t understand how he can miss seeing that it’s all a put-up job.

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

Wish him good luck from me, will you, and let him go straight away. But lock up the silverware. Hugs and kisses / M.

 

 

From <erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

I have no managing editor two weeks before we go to press, and my investigative reporter is sitting out in Sandhamn refusing to talk to me. Micke, I’m on my knees. Can you come in? / Erika.

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

Hold out another couple of weeks, then we’ll be home free. And start planning for a December issue that’s going to be unlike anything we’ve ever done. The piece will take up 40 pages. M.

 

 

From <erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

40 PAGES!!! Are you out of your mind?

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

It’s going to be a special issue. I need three more weeks. Could you do the following: (1) register a publishing company under the Millennium name, (2) get an ISBN number, (3) ask Christer to put together a cool logo for our new publishing company, and (4) find a good printer that can

produce a paperback quickly and cheaply. And by the way, we’re going to need capital to print

our first book. Kisses / Mikael

 

 

From <erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

Special issue. Book publisher. Money. Yes, master. Anything else I can do for you? Dance naked at Slussplan? / E.

P.S. I assume you know what you’re doing. But what do I do about Dahlman?

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

Don’t do anything about Dahlman. Tell him he’s free to go right away and you aren’t sure you can pay his wages anyway. Monopoly isn’t going to survive for long. Bring in more freelance material for this issue. And hire a new managing editor, for God’s sake. / M.

P.S. Slussplan? It’s a date.

 

 

From <erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

Slussplan—in your dreams. But we’ve always done the hiring together. / Ricky.

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

And we’ve always agreed about who we should hire. We will this time too, no matter who you choose. We’re going to scupper Wennerström. That’s the whole story. Just let me finish this in peace. / M.

In early October Salander read an article on the Internet edition of the Hedestad Courier. She told Blomkvist about it. Isabella Vanger had died after a short illness. She was mourned by her daughter, Harriet Vanger, lately returned from Australia.

Encrypted email from

<erika.berger@millennium.se>

To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

Hi Mikael.

Harriet Vanger came to see me at the office today. She called five minutes before she arrived, and I was totally unprepared. A beautiful woman, elegant clothes and a cool gaze.

She came to tell me that she’ll be replacing Martin Vanger as Henrik’s representative on our board. She was polite and friendly and assured me that the Vanger Corporation had no plans to back out of the agreement. On the contrary, the family stands fully behind Henrik’s obligations to the magazine. She asked for a tour of the editorial offices, and she wanted to know how I see the situation.

I told her the truth. That it feels as if I don’t have solid ground under my feet, that you have forbidden me to come to Sandhamn, and that I don’t know what you’re working on, other than that you are planning to sink Wennerström. (I assumed it was OK to say that. She is on the board,

after all.) She raised an eyebrow and smiled and asked if I had doubts that you’d succeed. What was I supposed to say to that? I said that I would sleep a little easier if I knew exactly what you were writing. Jeez, of course I trust you. But you’re driving me crazy.

I asked her if she knew what you were working on. She denied it but said that it was her impression that you were extremely resourceful, with an innovative way of thinking. (Her words.)

I said that I also gathered that something dramatic had happened up in Hedestad and that I was ever so slightly curious about the story regarding Harriet Vanger herself. In short, I felt like an idiot. She asked me whether you really hadn’t told me anything. She said that she understood that you and I have a special relationship and that you would undoubtedly tell me the story when you had time. Then she asked if she could trust me. What was I supposed to say? She’s on the

Millennium board, and you’ve left me here totally in the dark.

Then she said something odd. She asked me not to judge either her or you too harshly. She said she owed you some sort of debt of gratitude, and she would really like it if she and I could also be friends. Then she promised to tell me the story someday if you couldn’t do it. Half an hour ago

she left, and I’m still in a daze. I think I like her, but who is this person? / Erika

P.S. I miss you. I have a feeling that something nasty happened in Hedestad. Christer says that you have a strange mark on your neck.

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <erika.berger@millennium.se>:

Hi Ricky. The story about Harriet is so miserably awful that you can’t even imagine it. It would be great if she could tell you about it herself. I can hardly bring myself to think about it.

By the way, you can trust her. She was telling the truth when she said that she owes a debt of gratitude to me—and believe me, she will never do anything to harm Millennium. Be her friend if you like her. She deserves respect. And she’s a hell of a businesswoman. / M.

The next day Mikael received another email.

From

<harriet.vanger@vangerindustries.com> To <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se>:

Hi Mikael. I’ve been trying to find time to write to you for several weeks now, but it seems there are never enough hours in the day. You left so suddenly from Hedeby that I never had a chance to say goodbye.

Since my return to Sweden, my days have been filled with bewildering impressions and hard work. The Vanger Corporation is in chaos, and along with Henrik I’ve been working hard to put

its affairs in order. Yesterday I visited the Millennium offices; I’ll be Henrik’s representative on the board. Henrik has filled me in on all the details of the magazine’s situation and yours.

I hope that you will accept having me show up like this. If you don’t want me (or anyone else from the family) on the board, I’ll understand, but I do assure you that I’ll do all I can to support Millennium. I am in great debt to you, and I will always have the best of intentions in this regard.

I met your colleague Erika Berger. I’m not sure what she thought of me, and I was surprised to hear that you hadn’t told her about what happened.

I would very much like to be your friend. If you can stand to have anything more to do with the Vanger family. Best regards, Harriet

P.S. I understood from Erika that you’re planning to tackle Wennerström again. Dirch Frode told me how Henrik pulled a swifty on you, as they say in Australia. What can I say? I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.

 

 

From <mikael.blomkvist@millennium.se> To <harriet.vanger@vangerindustries.com>:

Hi Harriet. I left Hedeby in a big hurry and am now working on what I really should have been spending my time on this year. You’ll be advised in plenty of time before the article goes to press, but I think I can say that the problems of the past year will soon be over.

I hope you and Erika will be friends, and, of course, I have no problem with you being on Millennium’s board. I’ll tell Erika about what happened, if you think that’s wise. Henrik wanted me never to say anything to anyone. Let’s see, but right now I don’t have the time or the energy and I need a little distance first.

Let’s keep in touch. Best / Mikael

Salander was not especially interested in what Mikael was writing. She looked up from her book when Blomkvist said something, but at first she could not make it out.

“Sorry. I was talking aloud. I said that this is horrible.” “What’s horrible?”

“Wennerström had an affair with a twenty-two-year-old waitress and he got her pregnant. Have you read his correspondence with his lawyer?”

“My dear Mikael—you have ten years of correspondence, emails, agreements, travel arrangements, and God knows what on that hard drive. I don’t find Wennerström so fascinating that I’d cram six gigs of garbage into my head. I read through a fraction of it, mostly to satisfy my curiosity, and that was enough to tell me that he’s a gangster.”

“OK. He got her pregnant in 1997. When she wanted compensation, his lawyer got someone to try to convince her to have an abortion. I assume the intention was to offer her a sum of money, but she wasn’t interested. Then the persuading ended up with the heavy holding her underwater in a bath until she agreed to leave Wennerström in peace. And Wennerström’s idiot writes all

this to the lawyer in an email—of course encrypted, but even so . . . It doesn’t say much for the IQ of this bunch.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“She had an abortion, and Wennerström was pleased.”

Salander said nothing for ten minutes. Her eyes had suddenly turned dark. “One more man who hates women,” she muttered at last.

She borrowed the CDs and spent the next few days reading through Wennerström’s emails and other documents. While Blomkvist kept working, Salander was up in the sleeping loft with her PowerBook on her knees, pondering Wennerström’s peculiar empire.

An idea had occurred to her and she could not let it go. Most of all she wondered why it had not occurred to her sooner.

In late October Mikael turned off his computer when it was only 11:00 in the morning. He climbed up to the sleeping loft and handed Salander what he had written. Then he fell asleep. She woke him that evening and gave him her opinion of the article.

Just after 2:00 in the morning, Blomkvist made the last backup of his work. The next day he closed the shutters on the windows and locked up.

Salander’s holiday was over. They went back to Stockholm together.

He brought up the subject as they were drinking coffee from paper cups on the Vaxholm ferry.

“What the two of us need to decide is what to tell Erika. She’s going to refuse to publish this if I can’t explain how I got hold of the material.”

Erika Berger. Blomkvist’s editor in chief and long-time lover. Salander had never met her and was not sure that she wanted to either. Berger seemed like some indefinable disturbance in her life.

“What does she know about me?”

“Nothing.” He sighed. “The fact is that I’ve been avoiding her ever since the summer. She’s very frustrated about the fact that I couldn’t tell her what happened in Hedestad. She knows, of course, that I’ve been staying out at Sandhamn and writing this story, but she doesn’t know what it’s about.”

“Hmm.”

“In a couple of hours she’ll have the manuscript. Then she’s going to give me the third degree. The question is, what should I tell her?”

“What do you want to tell her?” “I’d like to tell her the truth.” Salander frowned.

“Lisbeth, Erika and I argue almost all the time. It seems to be part of how

we communicate. But she’s absolutely trustworthy. You’re a source. She would rather die than reveal who you are.”

“How many others would you have to tell?”

“Absolutely no-one. It will go to the grave with me and Erika. But I won’t tell her your secret if you don’t want me to. On the other hand, it’s not an option for me to lie to Erika, make up some source that doesn’t exist.”

Salander thought about it until they docked by the Grand Hotel. Analysis of consequences. Reluctantly she finally gave Blomkvist permission to introduce her to Erika. He switched on his mobile and made the call.

Berger was lunching with Malin Eriksson, whom she was considering hiring as managing editor. Eriksson was twenty-nine years old and had been working as a temp for five years. She had never held a permanent job and had started to doubt that she ever would. Berger called her on the very day that Malin’s latest temp job ended to ask if she would like to apply for the Millennium position.

“It’s a temporary post for three months,” Berger said. “But if things work out, it could be permanent.”

“I’ve heard rumours that Millennium is having a difficult time.” Berger smiled.

“You shouldn’t believe rumours.”

“This Dahlman that I would be replacing . . .” Eriksson hesitated. “He’s going to work at a magazine owned by Hans-Erik Wennerström . . .”

Berger nodded. “It’s hardly a trade secret that we’re in conflict with Wennerström. He doesn’t like people who work for Millennium.”

“So if I take the job at Millennium, I would end up in that category too.” “It’s very likely, yes.”

“But Dahlman got a job with Monopoly Financial Magazine, didn’t he?” “You might say that it’s Wennerström’s way of paying for services

rendered. Are you still interested?” Eriksson nodded.

“When do you want me to start?” That’s when Blomkvist called.

She used her own key to open the door to his apartment. It was the first time since his brief visit to the office at Midsummer that she was meeting him face to face. She went into the living room and found an anorexically thin girl sitting on the sofa, wearing a worn leather jacket and with her feet propped up on the coffee table. At first she thought the girl was about fifteen, but that was before she looked into her eyes. She was still looking at this creature when

Blomkvist came in with a coffeepot and coffee cake. “Forgive me for being completely impossible,” he said.

Berger tilted her head. There was something different about him. He looked haggard, thinner than she remembered. His eyes had a shamed expression, and for a moment he avoided her gaze. She glanced at his neck. She saw a pale red line, clearly distinguishable.

“I’ve been avoiding you. It’s a very long story, and I’m not proud of my role in it. But we’ll talk about that later . . . Now I want to introduce you to this young woman. Erika, this is Lisbeth Salander. Lisbeth, Erika Berger, editor in chief of Millennium and my best friend.”

Salander studied Berger’s elegant clothes and self-confident manner and decided after ten seconds that she was most likely not going to be her best friend.

Their meeting lasted five hours. Berger twice made calls to cancel other meetings. She spent an hour reading parts of the manuscript that Blomkvist put in her hands. She had a thousand questions but realised that it would take weeks before she got them answered. The important thing was the manuscript, which she finally put down. If even a fraction of these claims were accurate, a whole new situation had emerged.

Berger looked at Blomkvist. She had never doubted that he was an honest person, but now she felt dizzy and wondered whether the Wennerström affair had broken him—that what he had been working on was all a figment of his imagination. Blomkvist was at that moment unpacking two boxes of printed- out source material. Berger blanched. She wanted, of course, to know how it had come into his possession.

It took a while to convince her that this odd girl, who had said not one word during the meeting, had unlimited access to Wennerström’s computer. And not just his—she had also hacked into the computers of several of his lawyers and close associates.

Berger’s immediate reaction was that they could not use the material since it had been obtained through illegal means.

But, of course, they could use it. Blomkvist pointed out that they had no obligation to explain how they had acquired the material. They could just as well have a source with access to Wennerström’s computer who had burned everything on his hard drive to a CD.

Finally Berger realised what a weapon she had in her hands. She felt exhausted and still had questions, but she did not know where to begin. At last she leaned back against the sofa and threw out her hands.

“Mikael, what happened up in Hedestad?”

Salander looked up sharply. Blomkvist answered with a question.

“How are you getting along with Harriet Vanger?”

“Fine. I think. I’ve met her twice. Christer and I drove up to Hedestad for a board meeting last week. We got drunk on wine.”

“And the board meeting?” “She kept her word.”

“Ricky, I know you’re frustrated that I’ve been ducking you and coming up with excuses not to tell you what happened. You and I have never had secrets from each other, and all of a sudden there’s six months of my life that I’m . . . not prepared to tell you about.”

Berger met Blomkvist’s gaze. She knew him inside and out, but what she saw in his eyes was something she had never seen before. He was begging her not to ask. Salander watched their wordless dialogue. She was no part of it.

“Was it that bad?”

“It was worse. I’ve been dreading this conversation. I promise to tell you, but I’ve spent several months suppressing my feelings while Wennerström has absorbed all my attention . . . I’m still not ready. I’d prefer it if Harriet told you instead.”

“What’s that mark around your neck?”

“Lisbeth saved my life up there. If it weren’t for her, I’d be dead.” Berger’s eyes widened. She stared at the girl in the leather jacket.

“And right now you need to come to an agreement with her. She is our source.”

Berger sat for a time, thinking. Then she did something that astonished Blomkvist and startled Salander; she surprised even herself. The whole time she had been sitting at Mikael’s living-room table, she had felt Salander’s eyes on her. A taciturn girl with hostile vibrations.

Berger stood up and went around the table and threw her arms around the girl. Salander squirmed like a worm about to be put on a hook.