The Girl Who Played with Fire (72 page)

“All right, let’s go,” Zalachenko said from the door.

Niedermann bent and pulled Salander to her feet. She looked him in the eye.

“I’m going to kill you too,” she said.

“You’re very sure of yourself. I’ll say that for you,” her father said.

Niedermann smiled mildly and then pushed her towards the front
door and out into the yard. He kept a firm grip on the back of her neck His fingers could reach almost all the way around it. He steered her towards the woods beyond the barn.

They moved slowly and Niedermann stopped occasionally to let Zalachenko catch up. They both had powerful flashlights. When they reached the edge of the woods Niedermann let go of Salander’s neck. He kept the pistol trained on her back.

They followed a difficult path for about four hundred yards. Salander stumbled twice, but each time was lifted to her feet.

“Turn right here,” Niedermann said.

After about fifty feet they came into a clearing. Lisbeth saw a hole in the ground. In the beam of Niedermann’s flashlight she saw a spade stuck in a mound of soil. Then she understood Niedermann’s assignment. He pushed her towards the hole and she tripped and went down on all fours with her hands buried deep in the sandy earth. She got up and gave him an expressionless look. Zalachenko was taking his time, and Niedermann waited patiently. The muzzle of the pistol was unswervingly aimed at her chest.

Zalachenko was out of breath. It was more than a minute before he could speak.

“I ought to say something, but I don’t think I have anything to say to you,” he said.

“That’s fine by me,” Salander said. “I don’t have much to say to you either.” She gave him a lopsided smile.

“Let’s get it over with,” Zalachenko said.

“I’m glad that my very last act was to have you locked away forever,” Salander said. “The police will be here tonight.”

“Bullshit. I was expecting you to try a bluff. You came here to kill me and nothing else. You didn’t say anything to anybody.”

Salander’s smile broadened. She suddenly looked malevolent.

“May I show you something, Pappa?”

Slowly she reached into her left-hand pants pocket and took out a rectangular object. Niedermann watched her every move.

“Every word you’ve said in the past hour has been broadcast over Internet radio.”

She held up her Palm Tungsten T3 computer.

Zalachenko’s brow furrowed where his eyebrows should have been.

“Let’s see that,” he said, holding out his good hand.

As Niedermann bent to look at her computer, Salander flung a fistful of sand right into his eyes. He was blinded, but instinctively fired a round from his pistol. Salander had already moved two steps to one side and the bullet only tore a hole through the air where she had been standing. She grabbed the spade and swung it at his gun hand. She hit him with the sharp edge full force across the knuckles and saw his Sig Sauer fly in a wide arc away from them and into some bushes. Blood spurted from a gash above his index finger.

He should be screaming with pain
.

Niedermann fumbled with his wounded hand as he desperately tried to rub his eyes with the other. Her only chance to win this fight was to cause him massive damage, and as quickly as possible. If it came down to a physical contest she was hopelessly lost. She needed five seconds to make it into the woods. She swung the spade back over her shoulder and tried to twist the handle so that the edge would hit first, but she was in the wrong position. The flat side of the spade smacked into Niedermann’s face.

Niedermann grunted as his nose broke for the second time in a matter of days. He was still blinded by the sand, but he swung his right arm and managed to shove Salander away from him. She stumbled over a tree root. For a second she was down on the ground but sprang instantly to her feet. Niedermann was briefly out of action.

I’m going to make it
.

She took two steps towards the undergrowth when out of the corner of her eye—
click
—she saw Zalachenko raise his arm.

The fucking old man has a gun too
.

The realization cracked like a whip through her mind.

She changed direction in the same instant the shot was fired. The bullet struck the outside of her hip and made her spin off balance.

She felt no pain.

The second bullet hit her in the back and stopped against her left shoulder blade. A paralyzing pain sliced through her body.

She went down on her knees. For a few seconds she could not move. She was conscious that Zalachenko was behind her, about twenty feet away. With one last surge of energy she stubbornly hurled herself to her feet and took a wobbly step towards the cover of the bushes.

Zalachenko had time to aim.

The third bullet caught her about an inch below the top of her left ear. It penetrated her skull and caused a spiderweb of radial cracks in her cranium. The lead came to rest in the grey matter about two inches beneath the cerebral cortex, by the cerebrum.

For Salander the medical detail was academic. The bullet caused immediate massive trauma. Her last sensation was a glowing red shock that turned into a white light.

Then darkness.

Click
.

Zalachenko tried to fire one more round, but his hands were shaking so hard that he couldn’t aim.
She almost got away
. And then he realized that she was dead and he lowered his weapon, shivering as the adrenaline flowed through his body. He looked down at his gun. He had considered leaving it behind, but had gone to get it and put it in his jacket pocket as though he needed a mascot.
A monster
. They were two fully grown men, and one of them was Ronald Niedermann, who had been armed with his Sig Sauer.
And that fucking whore almost got away
.

He glanced at his daughter’s body. In the beam from his flashlight she looked like a bloody rag doll. He clicked the safety catch on and stuffed the pistol into his jacket pocket and went over to Niedermann, who was standing helpless, tears running from his dirt-filled eyes and blood from his hand and nose. “I think I broke my nose again,” he said.

“Idiot,” Zalachenko said. “She almost got away.”

Niedermann kept rubbing his eyes. They didn’t hurt, but the tears were flowing and he could scarcely see.

“Stand up straight, damn it.” Zalachenko shook his head in contempt. “What the hell would you do without me?”

Niedermann blinked in despair. Zalachenko limped over to his daughter’s body and grabbed her jacket by the collar. He dragged her to the grave that was only a hole in the ground, too small even for Salander to lie stretched out. He lifted the body so that her feet were over the opening and let her tumble in. She landed facedown in a fetal position, her legs bent under her.

“Fill it in so we can go home,” Zalachenko commanded.

It took the half-blind Niedermann a while to shovel the soil in around her. What was left over he spread out around the clearing with powerful jabs of the spade.

Zalachenko smoked a cigarette as he watched Niedermann work. He was still shivering, but the adrenaline had begun to subside. He felt a sudden
relief that she was gone. He could still picture her eyes as she threw the firebomb all those many years ago.

It was 9:30 when Zalachenko shone his flashlight around and declared himself satisfied. It took a while longer to find the Sig Sauer in the undergrowth. Then they went back to the house. Zalachenko was feeling wonderfully gratified. He tended to Niedermann’s hand. The spade had cut deep and he had to find a needle and thread to sew up the wound—a skill he had learned in military school in Novosibirsk as a fifteen-year-old. At least he didn’t need to administer an anaesthetic. But it was possible that the wound was sufficiently serious for Niedermann to have to go to the hospital. He put a splint on the finger and bandaged it. They would decide in the morning.

When he was finished he got himself a beer as Niedermann rinsed his eyes over and over in the bathroom.

Blomkvist arrived at Göteborg Central Station just after 9:00 p.m. The X2000 had made up some time, but it was still late. He had spent the last hour of the journey calling car rental companies. He’d first thought of finding a car in Alingsås and getting off there, but the office was closed already. Ultimately he managed to order a Volkswagen through a hotel booking agency in the city. He could pick up the car at Järntorget. He decided not to try to navigate Göteborg’s confusing local traffic and incomprehensible ticket system and took a cab to the lot.

When he got to the car there was no map in the glove compartment. He bought one in a gas station, along with a flashlight, a bottle of mineral water, and a cup of coffee, which he put in the holder on the dashboard. It was 10:30 before he drove out of the city on the road to Alingsås.

A fox stopped and looked about restlessly. He knew that something was buried there. But from somewhere nearby came the rustle of an unwary night animal and the fox was instantly on the alert for easier prey. He took a cautious step. But before he continued his hunt he lifted his hind leg and pissed on the spot to mark his territory.

Bublanski did not normally call his colleagues late in the evening, but this time he couldn’t resist. He picked up the phone and dialled Modig’s number.

“Pardon me for calling so late. Are you up?”

“No problem.”

“I’ve just finished going through Björck’s report.”

“I’m sure you had as much trouble putting it down as I did.”

“Sonja… how do you make sense of what’s going on?”

“It seems to me that Gunnar Björck, a prominent name on the list of johns, if you remember, had Lisbeth Salander put in an asylum after she tried to protect herself and her mother from a lunatic sadist who was working for Säpo. He was abetted in this by Dr. Teleborian, among others, on whose testimony we in part based our own evaluation of her mental state.”

“This changes the entire picture we have of her.”

“It explains a great deal.”

“Sonja, can you pick me up in the morning at 8:00?”

“Of course.”

“We’re going to go down to Smådalarö to have a talk with Gunnar Björck. I made some enquiries. He’s on sick leave.”

“I’m looking forward to it already.”

Beckman looked at his wife as she stood by the window in the living room, staring out at the water. She had her mobile in her hand, and he knew that she was waiting for a call from Blomkvist. She looked so unhappy that he went over and put his arm around her.

“Blomkvist is a grown man,” he said. “But if you’re really so worried you should call that policeman.”

Berger sighed. “I should have done that hours ago. But that’s not why I’m unhappy.”

“Is it something I should know about?”

“I’ve been hiding something from you. And from Mikael. And from everyone else at the magazine.”

“Hiding? Hiding what?”

She turned to her husband and told him that she had been offered the job of editor in chief at
Svenska Morgon-Posten
. Beckman raised his eyebrows.

“But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me,” he said. “That’s a huge coup. Congratulations.”

“It’s just that I feel like a traitor.”

“Mikael will understand. Everyone has to move on when it’s time. And right now it’s time for you.”

“I know.”

“Have you already made up your mind?”

“Yes. I’ve made up my mind. But I haven’t had the guts to tell anybody. And it feels as if I’m leaving in the midst of a huge disaster.” Beckman took his wife in his arms.

Armansky rubbed his eyes and looked out into the darkness.

“We ought to call Bublanski,” he said.

“No,” Palmgren said. “Neither Bublanski nor any other authority figure has ever lifted a finger to help her. Let her take care of her own affairs.”

Armansky looked at Salander’s former guardian. He was still amazed by the improvement in Palmgren’s condition compared with when he last saw him over Christmas. He still slurred his words, but he had a new vitality in his eyes. There was also a fury about the man that Armansky had never seen before. Palmgren told him the whole story that Blomkvist had pieced together. Armansky was shocked.

“She’s going to try to kill her father.”

“That’s possible,” Palmgren said calmly.

“Or else Zalachenko might try to kill her.”

“That’s also possible.”

“So we’re just supposed to wait?”

“Dragan … you’re a good person. But what Lisbeth Salander does or doesn’t do, whether she survives or whether she dies, is not your responsibility.”

Palmgren threw out his arms. All of a sudden he had rediscovered a coordination that he hadn’t had in a long time. It was as though the drama of the past few weeks had revived his dulled senses.

“I’ve never been sympathetic towards people who take the law into their own hands. But I’ve never heard of anyone who had such a good reason to do so. At the risk of sounding like a cynic, what happens tonight will happen, no matter what you or I think. It’s been written in the stars since she was born. And all that remains is for us to decide how we’re going to behave towards Lisbeth if she makes it back.”

Armansky sighed and looked grimly at the old lawyer.

“And if she spends the next ten years in prison, at least she was the one who chose that path. I’ll still be her friend,” Palmgren said.

“I had no idea you had such a libertarian view of humanity.”

“Neither did I,” he said.

•  •  •

Miriam Wu stared at the ceiling. She had the nightlight on and the radio was playing “On a Slow Boat to China” at a low volume.

The day before she had woken to find herself in the hospital where Paolo Roberto had brought her. She slept and woke restlessly and went to sleep again with no real grasp of passing time. The doctors told her that she had a concussion. In any case she needed to rest. She had a broken nose, three broken ribs, and bruises all over her body. Her left eyebrow was so swollen that her eye was merely a slit. It hurt whenever she tried to change position. It hurt when she breathed in. Her neck was painful and she was wearing a brace, just to be on the safe side. But the doctors had assured her that she would make a complete recovery.