The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

way you do when you haven’t seen someone for some time, but they were constantly being interrupted by Baksi’s mobile. He would have urgent-sounding conversations in Kurdish or possibly Turkish or Arabic or some other language that Blomkvist did not understand. It had always been this way on his other visits to Black/White Publishing. People called from all over the world to talk to Baksi.

“My dear Mikael, you look worried. What’s on your mind?” he said at last.

“Could you turn off your telephone for a few minutes?”

Baksi turned off his telephone.

“I need a favour. A really important favour, and it has to be done immediately and cannot be mentioned outside this room.”

“Tell me.”

“In 1989 a refugee by the name of Idris Ghidi came to Sweden from Iraq. When he was faced with the prospect of deportation, he received help from your family until he was granted a residency permit. I don’t know if it was your father or somebody else in the family who helped him.”

“It was my uncle Mahmut. I know Ghidi. What’s going on?”

“He’s working in Goteborg. I need his help to do a simple job. I’m willing to pay him.”

“What kind of job?”

“Do you trust me, Kurdo?”

“Of course. We’ve always been friends.”

“The job I need done is very odd. I don’t want to say what it entails right now, but I assure you it’s in no way illegal, nor will it cause any problems for you or for Ghidi.”

Baksi gave Blomkvist a searching look. “You don’t want to tell me what it’s about?”

“The fewer people who know, the better. But I need your help for an introduction – so that Idris will listen to me.”

Baksi went to his desk and opened an address book. He looked through it for a minute before he found the number. Then he picked up the telephone. The conversation was in Kurdish. Blomkvist could see from Baksi’s expression that he started out with words of greeting and small talk before he got serious and explained why he was calling. After a while he said to Blomkvist:

“When do you want to meet him?”

“Friday afternoon, if that would work. Ask if I can visit him at home.”

Baksi spoke for a short while before he hung up.

“Idris lives in Angered,” he said. “Do you have the address?”

Blomkvist nodded.

“He’ll be home by 5.00 on Friday afternoon. You’re welcome to visit him there.”

“Thanks, Kurdo.”

“He works at Sahlgrenska hospital as a cleaner,” Baksi said.

“I know.”

“I couldn’t help reading in the papers that you’re mixed up in this Salander story.”

“That’s right.”

“She was shot.”

“Yes.”

“I heard she’s at Sahlgrenska.”

“That’s also true.”

Baksi knew that Blomkvist was busy planning some sort of mischief, which was what he was famous for doing. He had known him since the ’80s. They might not have been best friends, but they never argued either, and Blomkvist had never hesitated if Baksi asked him a favour.

“Am I going to get mixed up in something I ought to know about?”

“You’re not going to get involved. Your role was only to do me the kindness of introducing me to one of your acquaintances. And, I repeat, I won’t ask him to do anything illegal.”

This assurance was enough for Baksi. Blomkvist stood up. “I owe you one.”

“We always owe each other one.”

Cortez put down the telephone and drummed so loudly with his fingertips on the edge of his desk that Nilsson glared at him. But she could see that he was lost in his own thoughts, and since she was feeling irritated in general she decided not to take it out on him.

She knew that Blomkvist was doing a lot of whispering with Cortez and Eriksson and Malm about the Salander story, while she and Karim were expected to do all the spadework for the next issue of a magazine that had not had any real leadership since Berger left. Eriksson was fine, but she lacked experience and the gravitas of Berger. And Cortez was just a young whippersnapper.

Nilsson was not unhappy that she had been passed over, nor did she want their jobs – that was the last thing she wanted. Her own job was to keep tabs on the government departments and parliament on behalf of Millennium. It was a job she enjoyed, and she knew it inside out. Besides, she had had it up to here with other work, like writing a column in a trade journal every week, or various volunteer tasks for Amnesty International and the like. She was not interested in being editor-in-chief of Millennium and working a minimum of twelve hours a day as well as sacrificing her weekends.

She did, however, feel that something had changed at Millennium. The magazine suddenly felt foreign. She could not put her finger on what was wrong.

As always, Blomkvist was irresponsible and kept vanishing on another of his mysterious trips, coming and going as he pleased. He was one of the owners of Millennium, fair enough, he could decide for himself what he wanted to do, but Jesus, a little sense of responsibility would not hurt.

Malm was the other current part-owner, and he was about as much help as he was when he was on holiday. He was talented, no question, and he could step in and take over the reins when Berger was away or busy, but usually he just followed through with what other people had already decided. He was brilliant at anything involving graphic design or presentations, but he was right out of his depth when it came to planning a magazine.

Nilsson frowned.

No, she was being unfair. What bothered her was that something had happened at the office. Blomkvist was working with Eriksson and Cortez, and the rest of them were somehow excluded. Those three had formed an inner circle and were always shutting themselves in Berger’s office… well, Eriksson’s office, and then they’d all come trooping out in silence. Under Berger’s leadership the magazine had always been a collective.

Blomkvist was working on the Salander story and would not share any part of it. But this was nothing new. He had not said a word about the Wennerstrom story either – not even Berger had known – but this time he had two confidants.

In a word, Nilsson was pissed off. She needed a holiday. She needed to get away for a while. Then she saw Cortez putting on his corduroy jacket.

“I’m going out for a while,” he said. “Could you tell Malin that I’ll be back in two hours?”

“What’s going on?”

“I think I’ve got a lead on a story. A really good story. About toilets. I want to check a few things, but if this pans out we’ll have a fantastic article for the June issue.”

“Toilets,” Nilsson muttered. “A likely story.”

Berger clenched her teeth and put down the article about the forthcoming Salander trial. It was short, two columns, intended for page five under national news. She looked at the text for a minute and pursed her lips. It was 3.30 on Thursday. She had been working at S.M.P. for exactly twelve days. She picked up the telephone and called Holm, the news editor.

“Hello, it’s Berger. Could you find Johannes Frisk and bring him to my office asap?”

She waited patiently until Holm sauntered into the glass cage with the reporter Frisk in tow. Berger looked at her watch.

“Twenty-two,” she said.