The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

“Many times.”

“And Salander?”

“She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerstrom. 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 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 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 got 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. We shared out the property so that 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 and my ex-wife, who I was together with in the ’80s, a woman I was in a serious relationship with in the late ’90s, 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 badly 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 Pressbyran news-stand at Slussen and read the billboards for the morning papers. Svenska Morgon-Posten’s C.E.O. and chairman of the board Magnus Borgsjo had capitulated and tendered his resignation. Blomkvist bought the papers and walked to Java on Hornsgatan to have a late breakfast. Borgsjo 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 Naringsliv, the confederation of Swedish enterprise, had decided to set up an ethics committee to investigate the dealings of Swedish companies with businesses in South East 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 presented She on T.V.4, 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 laughed. “Sorry, but you couldn’t be further from my type.”

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

“What have you got going?”

“Erika Berger made a deal with you two years ago about the Wennerstrom 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’ve got 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 Wennerstrom,” 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 with on her? Is she back at Millennium now that she’s been thrown out of S.M.P.?”

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

“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 had the message that morning. Gullberg had been tougher than almost anyone he had known. When you fire a 9 mm 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.