The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

personal and intimate possessions had been stolen, and the Borgsjo report too, made it impossible for her to relax.

During a sleepless night spent mostly in the kitchen with Linder, Berger had expected the “Poison Pen” to strike, disseminating pictures of her that would be deplorably damaging. What an excellent tool the Internet was for freaks. Good grief… a video of me shagging my husband and another man – I’m going to end up on half the websites in the world.

Panic and terror had dogged her through the night.

It took all of Linder’s powers of persuasion to send her to bed.

At 8.00 she got up and drove to S.M.P. She could not stay away. If a storm was brewing, then she wanted to face it first before anyone else got wind of it.

But in the half-staffed Saturday newsroom everything was normal. People greeted her as she limped past the central desk. Holm was off today. Fredriksson was the acting news editor.

“Morning. I thought you were taking today off,” he said.

“Me too. But I wasn’t feeling well yesterday and I’ve got things I have to do. Anything happening?”

“No, it’s pretty slow today. The hottest thing we’ve got is that the timber industry in Dalarna is reporting a boom, and there was a robbery in Norrkoping in which one person was injured.”

“Right. I’ll be in the cage for a while.”

She sat down, leaned her crutches against the bookshelves, and logged on. First she checked her email. She had several messages, but nothing from Poison Pen. She frowned. It had been two days now since the break- in, and he had not yet acted on what had to be a treasure trove of opportunities. Why not? Maybe he’s going to change tactics. Blackmail? Maybe he just wants to keep me guessing.

She had nothing specific to work on, so she clicked on the strategy document she was writing for S.M.P. She stared at the screen for fifteen minutes without seeing the words.

She tried to call Greger, but with no success. She did not even know if his mobile worked in other countries. Of course she could have tracked him down with a bit of effort, but she felt lazy to the core. Wrong, she felt helpless and paralysed.

She tried to call Blomkvist to tell him that the Borgsjo folder had been stolen, but he did not answer.

By 10.00 she had accomplished nothing and decided to go home. She was just reaching out to shut down her computer when her I.C.Q. account pinged. She looked in astonishment at the icon bar. She knew what I.C.Q. was but she seldom chatted, and she had not used the program since starting at S.M.P.

She clicked hesitantly on Answer.

– Hello, Erika.

– Hello. Who are you?

– Private business. Are you alone?

A trick? Poison Pen?

– Yeah. Who are you?

– We met at the home of Mikael Blomkvist, Sandhamn, when he returned.

Berger stared at the screen. It took her a few seconds to make the connection. Lisbeth Salander. Impossible.

– Are you there?

– Yes.

– No names. You know who am I?

– How do I know you're not an imposter?

– I know how Mikael's got neck scar.

Berger swallowed. Only four people in the world knew how he had come by that scar. Salander was one of them.

– Okay. But how could you chat with me?

– I am good with computers.

Salander is a devil with computers. But how the hell is she managing to communicate from Sahlgrenska, where she’s been isolated since April?

– Okay.

– Can I trust you?

– What do you mean?

– This conversation is not to be screened.

She doesn’t want the police to know she has access to the Net. Of course not. Which is why she’s chatting with the editor-in-chief of one of the biggest newspapers in Sweden.

– Agreed. What do you want?

– Pay.

– What do you mean?

– Millennium has supported me.

– We have done our job.

– Other papers did.

– You're not guilty of what they accuse you.

– You have a stalker following you the steps.

Berger’s heart beat furiously.

– What do you know?

– Stolen video. Someone got into your home.

– Yes. Can you help?

Berger could not believe she was asking this question. It was absurd. Salander was in rehabilitation at Sahlgrenska and was up to her neck in her own problems. She was the most unlikely person Berger could turn to with any hope of getting help.

– Don't know. Let me try.

– How?

– Question: Do you believe that bastard's from S.M.P.?

– I can prove it.

– Why do you think so?

Berger thought for while before she replied.

– It's a feeling. It all started when I came to work here. Other people in the newspaper have received nasty emails from the poison pen that appear to come from me.

– What is the poison pen?

– It's the name that I've given the bastard.

– Okay. Why poison pen has chosen you and not somebody else?

– I don't know.

– Is there anything that makes you believe it's something personal?

– What do you mean?

– How many employees are in the S.M.P.?

– Over two hundred thirty, including editorial.

– How many know in person?

– I don't know them very well. Over the years I have known several journalists and employees in different situations.

– Someone you've ever fought?

– No. Not specifically.

– Someone who want revenge?

– Revenge? What?

– Revenge is a good reason.

Berger stared at the screen as she tried to work out what Salander was getting at.

– Are you there?

– Yes, why do you ask me about the revenge?