The Girl who played with Fire

to juggle already.

Blomkvist walked into Millennium and went straight to Berger’s office.

“His name is Zalachenko,” he said without even saying hello. “He’s a former Soviet hit man from one of the intelligence services. He defected in 1976 and was granted asylum in Sweden and given a salary by Sapo. After the end of the Soviet Union he became, like many others, a full-time gangster. Now he’s involved in sex trafficking and smuggling weapons and drugs.”

Berger put down her pen. “Why am I not surprised that the KGB is popping up in the action?”

“It’s not the KGB. It’s the GRU. The military intelligence service.”

“So it’s serious.”

Blomkvist nodded.

“You mean he’s the one who murdered Dag and Mia?”

“It wasn’t him, no. He sent someone. Ronald Niedermann, the monster that Malin has been finding out about.”

“Can you prove this?”

“More or less. Some of it is guesswork. But Bjurman was murdered because he asked Zalachenko for help in dealing with Lisbeth.”

Blomkvist told her about the DVD Salander had left in her desk.

“Zalachenko is her father. Bjurman worked formally for Sapo in the mid-seventies and was one of those who made Zalachenko officially welcome when he defected. Later Bjurman became a lawyer with his own practice and a full-time crook, doing jobs for an elite group within the Security Police. I would think there’s an inner circle that meets now and then in the men’s sauna to control the world and keep the secret about Zalachenko. I’m guessing that the rest of Sapo has never even heard of the bastard. Lisbeth threatened to crack the secret wide open. So they locked her up in a children’s psychiatric unit.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Oh, but it is,” Blomkvist said. “Lisbeth wasn’t especially manageable then, nor is she now… but since she was twelve years old she’s been a threat to national security.”

He gave her a summary of the story.

“This is quite a bit to digest,” Berger said. “And Dag and Mia…”

“Were murdered because Dag discovered the link between Bjurman and Zalachenko.”

“So what happens now? We have to tell the police, don’t we?”

“Parts of it, but not all. I’ve copied the significant information onto this disk as backup, just in case. Lisbeth is looking for Zalachenko. I’m going to try to find her. Nothing of this must be shared with anybody.”

“Mikael… I don’t like this. We can’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”

“And we’re not going to. I intend to call Bublanski. But my guess is that Lisbeth is on her way to Gosseberga. She’s still being sought for three murders, and if we call the police they’ll unleash their armed response team and backup weapons with hunting ammunition, and there’s a real risk that she would resist arrest. And then anything could happen.” He stopped and smiled grimly. “If nothing else, we ought to keep the police out of it so that the armed response team doesn’t come to a sticky end. I have to find her first.”

Berger looked dubious.

“I don’t intend to reveal Lisbeth’s secrets. Bublanski will have to figure those out for himself. I want you to do me a favour. This folder contains Bjorck’s report from 1991 and some correspondence between Bjorck and Teleborian. I want you to make a copy and offer it to Bublanski or Modig. I’m leaving for Goteborg in twenty minutes.”

“Mikael…”

“I know. But I’m on Lisbeth’s side through it all.”

Berger pressed her lips together and said nothing. Then she nodded.

“Be careful,” she said, but he had already left.

I should go with him, she thought. That was the only decent thing to do. But she still hadn’t told him that she was going to leave Millennium and that it was all over, no matter what happened. She took the folder and headed for the photocopier.

The box was in a post office in a shopping centre. Salander didn’t know Goteborg, nor where in the city she was, but she found the post office and positioned herself in a cafe where she could keep watch on the box through a gap in a window where there was a poster advertising the Svensk Kassatjanst, the improved Swedish postal system.

Irene Nesser wore more discreet makeup than Lisbeth Salander. She had some silly necklaces on and was reading Crime and Punishment, which she had found in a bookshop one street away. She took her time, occasionally turning a page. She’d begun her surveillance at lunch time and had no idea whether anyone came regularly to pick up the mail, whether it might be daily or every other week, whether it had already been collected earlier in the day, or whether anyone ever turned up at all. But it was her only lead, and she drank a caffe latte while she waited.

She was about to doze off when she suddenly saw the door to the box being opened. She glanced at the clock. A quarter to two. Lucky as shit.

She got up quickly and walked over to the window, where she spotted someone in a black leather jacket leaving the area where the boxes were. She caught up with him on the street outside. He was a thin young man in his twenties. He walked round the corner to a Renault and unlocked the door. Salander memorized the licence plate number and ran back to her Corolla, which was parked only a hundred yards away on the same street. She caught up with the car as it turned onto Linnegatan. She followed him down Avenyn and up towards Nordstan.

***

Blomkvist arrived at Central Station in time to catch the X2000 train at 5:10 p.m. He bought a ticket on board with his credit card, took a seat in the restaurant car, and ordered a late lunch.

He felt a gnawing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach and was afraid he had set off too late. He prayed that Salander would call him, but he knew that she wouldn’t.

She had done her best to kill Zalachenko in 1991. Now, after all these years, he had struck back.

Palmgren had delivered a prescient analysis. Salander had experienced personally that it was no use talking to the authorities.

Blomkvist glanced at his laptop bag. He had brought along the Colt that he’d found in her desk. He wasn’t sure why he had taken the gun, but he’d felt instinctively that he must not leave it in her apartment. He knew that wasn’t much of a logical argument.

As the train rolled across Arstabron he flipped open his mobile and called Bublanski.

“What do you want?” Bublanski said, obviously annoyed.

“To tie up loose ends,” Blomkvist said.

“Loose ends of what?”

“This whole mess. Do you want to know who murdered Svensson, Johansson, and Bjurman?”

“If you have information I’d like to hear it.”

“The murderer’s name is Ronald Niedermann. That’s the giant who boxed with Paolo Roberto. He’s a German citizen, thirty-five years old, and he works for a scumbag named Alexander Zalachenko, also known as Zala.”

Bublanski said nothing for a long time, and then Blomkvist heard him sigh, turn over a sheet of paper, and click his ballpoint.

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“OK. So where are Niedermann and this Zalachenko?”

“I don’t know yet. But as soon as I work it out I’ll let you know. In a little while Erika Berger will deliver to you a police report from 1991. In it you’ll find all sorts of information about Zalachenko and Salander.”

“Like what?”