The Girl Who Played with Fire (25 page)

He leafed back and forth for a long time. He might as well have come upon a notebook full of Chinese characters. But he grasped the essentials of what she was trying to do. She had become fascinated by Fermat’s Last Theorem, a classic riddle. He let out a deep sigh.

The last page in the book contained some very brief and cryptic notes which had absolutely nothing to do with math, but nevertheless still looked like a formula:

They were underlined and circled and meant nothing to him. At the bottom of the page was a telephone number and the name of a car rental company in Eskilstuna, Auto-Expert.

Blomkvist made no attempt to interpret the notes. He stubbed out his cigarette and put on his jacket, set the alarm in the office, and walked to the terminal at Slussen, where he took the bus out to the yuppie reserve
in Stäket, near Lännersta Sound. He had been invited to dinner with his sister, Annika Blomkvist Giannini, who was turning forty-two.

Berger began her long Easter weekend with a furious and anxiety-filled two-mile jog that ended at the steamboat wharf in Saltsjöbaden. She had been lazy about her hours at the gym and felt stiff and out of shape. She walked home. Her husband was giving a lecture at the Modern Museum and it would be at least 8:00 before he got home. Berger thought she would open a bottle of good wine, switch on the sauna, and seduce him. At least it would stop her thinking about the problem that was worrying her.

A week earlier she had had lunch with the CEO of the biggest media company in Sweden. Over salad he had set forth in all seriousness his intention to recruit her as editor in chief of the company’s largest daily newspaper, the
Svenska Morgon-Posten. The board has discussed several possibilities, but we are agreed that you would be a great asset to the paper. You’re the one we want
. Attached to the offer was a salary that made her income at
Millennium
look ridiculous.

The offer had come like a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky, and it left her speechless.
Why me?

He had been oddly vague, but gradually the explanation emerged that she was known, respected, and a certifiably talented editor. They were impressed by the way she had dragged
Millennium
out of the quicksand it had been in two years earlier. The
Svenska Morgon-Posten
needed to be revitalized in the same way. There was an old-man atmosphere about the newspaper that was causing a steady decline in the new-subscriber rate. Berger was a powerful journalist. She had clout. Putting a woman—a feminist no less—in charge of one of Sweden’s most conservative and male-dominated institutions was a provocative and bold idea. Everyone was agreed. Well, almost everyone. The ones who counted were all on his side.

“But I don’t share the basic political views of the newspaper.”

“Who cares? You’re not an outspoken opponent either. You’re going to be the boss—not an apparatchik—and the editorial page will take care of itself.”

He hadn’t said it in so many words, but it was also a matter of class. Berger came from the right background.

She had told him that she was certainly attracted by the proposal but
that she could not give him an answer immediately. She was going to have to think the matter through. But they agreed that she would give them her decision sooner rather than later. The CEO had explained that if the salary offer was the reason for her hesitation, she was probably in a position to negotiate an even higher figure. A strikingly generous golden parachute would also be included.
It’s time for you to start thinking about your pension plan
.

Her forty-fifth birthday was coming up. She had done her apprenticeship as a trainee and a temp. She had put together
Millennium
and become its editor in chief on her own merits. The moment when she would have to pick up the telephone and say yes or no was fast approaching, and she did not know what she was going to do. During the past week she had considered time and again discussing the matter with Blomkvist, but she had not been able to summon up the nerve. Instead she had been hiding the offer from him, which gave her a pang of guilt.

There were some obvious disadvantages. A yes would mean breaking up the partnership with Blomkvist. He would never follow her to the
Svenska Morgon-Posten
, no matter how sweet a deal she or they could offer him. He did not need the money now, and he was getting on fine writing articles at his own pace.

Berger liked being editor in chief of
Millennium
. It had given her a status within the world of journalism that she considered almost undeserved. She had never been the producer of the news. That was not her thing—she regarded herself as a mediocre writer. On the other hand, she was first-rate on radio or TV, and above all she was a brilliant editor. Besides, she enjoyed the hands-on work of editing, which was a prerequisite for the post of editor in chief at
Millennium
.

Nevertheless, she was tempted. Not so much by the salary as by the fact that the job meant that she would become without question one of Sweden’s big-time media players.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer
, the CEO had said.

Somewhere near the Grand Hotel in Saltsjöbaden she realized to her dismay that she was not going to be able to turn the offer down. And she shuddered at the thought of having to tell Blomkvist.

Dinner at the Gianninis’ was, as always, mildly chaotic. Annika had two children: Monica, thirteen, and Jennie, ten. Her husband, Enrico, who was the head of the Scandinavian arm of an international biotech firm, had custody of Antonio, his sixteen-year-old son from his first marriage.
Also at dinner were Enrico’s mother Antonia, his brother Pietro, his sister-in-law Eva-Lotta, and their children Peter and Nicola. Plus Enrico’s sister Marcella and her four kids, who lived in the same neighbourhood. Enrico’s aunt Angelina, who was regarded by the family as stark raving mad, or on good days just extremely eccentric, had also been invited, along with her new boyfriend.

At the dining-room table, abundant with food, the conversation went on in a rattling mixture of Swedish and Italian, sometimes simultaneously. The situation was made more annoying because Angelina spent the evening wondering out loud—to anyone who would listen—why Annika’s brother was still a bachelor. She also proposed a number of suitable solutions to his problem from among the daughters of her friends. Exasperated, Blomkvist finally explained that he would be happy to get married but that unfortunately his lover was already married. That shut up even Angelina for a while.

At 7:30 Blomkvist’s mobile beeped. He’d thought he had shut it off and he almost missed the call as he dug it out of the inside pocket of his jacket, which someone had hung on the coatrack in the hall. It was Svensson.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Not particularly. I’m at dinner with my sister and a platoon of people from her husband’s family. What’s up?”

“Two things. I’ve tried to get hold of Christer, but he’s not answering.”

“He’s at the theatre with his boyfriend.”

“Damn. I’d promised to meet him at the office tomorrow morning with the photographs and graphics for the book. Christer was going to look at them over the weekend. But Mia has suddenly decided to drive up to see her parents in Dalarna for Easter to show them her thesis. We’ll have to leave early in the morning and some of the pictures I can’t email. Could I messenger them over to you tonight?”

“You could … but look, I’m out in Lännersta. I’ll be here for a while, but I’m coming back into town later. Enskede wouldn’t be that far out of my way. I could drop by and pick them up. Would around 11:00 be OK?”

“That’s fine. The second thing … I don’t think you’re going to like this.”

“Shoot.”

“I stumbled across something I think I had better check out before the book goes to the printer.”

“OK—what is it?”

“Zala, spelled with a
Z
.”

“Ah. Zala the gangster. The one people seem to be terrified of and nobody wants to talk about.”

“That’s him. A couple of days ago I came across him again. I believe he’s in Sweden now and that he ought to be in the list of johns in chapter seven.”

“Dag—you can’t start digging up new material three weeks before we go to press.”

“I know. But this is a bit special. I talked to a policeman who had heard some talk about Zala. Anyway, I think it would make sense to spend a couple of days next week checking up on him.”

“Why him? You’ve got plenty of other assholes in the book.”

“This one seems to be an Olympian asshole. Nobody really knows who he is. I’ve got a gut feeling that it would be worth our while to poke around one more time.”

“Don’t ever discount your gut feelings,” Blomkvist said. “But honestly … we can’t push back the deadline. The printer is booked, and the book has to come out simultaneously with the
Millennium
issue.”

“I know,” Svensson said, sounding dejected.

“I’ll call you later,” Blomkvist said.

Johansson had just brewed a pot of coffee and poured it into the table thermos when the doorbell rang. It was just before 9:00 p.m. Svensson was closer to the door and, thinking it was Blomkvist coming earlier than he had said he would, he opened it without first looking through the peephole. Not Blomkvist. Instead he was confronted by a short, doll-like girl in her late teens.

“I’m looking for Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson,” the girl said.

“I’m Dag Svensson.”

“I’d like to speak with both of you.”

Svensson automatically looked at the clock. Johansson was curious and came into the hall to stand behind her boyfriend.

“It’s a bit late for a visit,” Svensson said.

“I’d like to talk about the book you’re planning on publishing at
Millennium.”

Svensson and Johansson looked at each other.

“And who are you?”

“I’m interested in the subject. May I come in, or shall we discuss it here on the landing?”

Svensson hesitated for a second. The girl was a total stranger, and the
time of her visit was odd, but she seemed harmless enough, so he held the door open. He showed her to the table in the living room.

“Would you like some coffee?” Johansson said.

“How about first telling us who you are,” Svensson said.

“Yes, please. To the coffee, I mean. My name is Lisbeth Salander.”

Johansson shrugged and opened the table thermos. She had already set out cups in anticipation of Blomkvist’s visit. “And what makes you think I’m publishing a book at
Millennium?”
Svensson said.

He was suddenly deeply suspicious, but the girl ignored him and turned instead to Johansson. She made a face that could have been a crooked smile.

“Interesting thesis,” she said.

Johansson looked shocked.

“How could you know anything about my thesis?”

“I happened to get hold of a copy,” the girl said cryptically.

Svensson’s annoyance grew. “Now you’re really going to have to explain who you are and what you want.”

The girl’s eyes met his. He suddenly noticed that her irises were so dark that in this light her eyes might be raven black. And perhaps he had underestimated her age.

“I’d like to know why you’re going around asking questions about Zala. Alexander Zala,” Salander said. “And above all I’d like to know exactly what you know about him already.”

Alexander Zala
, Svensson thought in shock. He had never known the first name.

The girl lifted her coffee cup and took a sip without releasing him from her gaze. Her eyes had no warmth at all. He suddenly felt vaguely uneasy.

Unlike Blomkvist and the other adults at the dinner party (and despite the fact that she was the birthday girl), Annika Giannini had drunk only light beer and refrained from any wine or aquavit with the meal. So at 10:30 she was stone-cold sober. Since in some respects she took her big brother for a complete idiot who needed to be looked after, she generously offered to drive him home via Enskede. She had already planned to drive him to the bus stop on Värmdövägen, and it wouldn’t take that much longer to go into the city.

“Why don’t you get your own car?” she complained anyway as Blomkvist fastened his seat belt.

“Because unlike you I live within walking distance of my work and need a car about once a year. Besides, I wouldn’t have been able to drive anyway after your husband started serving spirits from Skåne.”

“He’s becoming Swedish. Ten years ago it would have been grappa.”

They spent the ride talking as brothers and sisters do. Apart from a persistent paternal aunt, two less persistent maternal aunts, two distant cousins, and one second cousin, Mikael and Annika had only each other for family. The three-year age difference meant that they had not had much in common during their teens. But they had become closer as adults.

Annika had studied law, and Blomkvist thought of her as a great deal more talented than he was. She sailed through university, spent a few years in the district courts, and then became the assistant to one of the better-known lawyers in Sweden. Then she started her own practice. She had specialized in family law, which gradually developed into work on equal rights. She became an advocate for abused women, wrote a book on the subject, and became a respected name. To top it off, she had become involved politically for the Social Democrats, which prompted Blomkvist to tease her about being an apparatchik. Blomkvist himself had decided early on that he could not combine party membership with journalistic credibility. He never willingly voted, and on the occasions when he felt absolutely obliged to vote he refused to talk about his choices, even with Berger.

“How are you doing?” Annika said as they crossed Skurubron.

“Oh, I’m doing fine.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“What problem?”

“I know you, Micke. You’ve been preoccupied all evening.”

Blomkvist sat in silence for a moment.

“It’s a complicated story. I’ve got two problems right now. One is about a girl I met two years ago who helped me on the Wennerström affair and then just disappeared from my life with no explanation. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her in more than a year, except for last week.”