CHAPTER 19
Friday, June 3–Saturday, June 4

Salander finished her autobiography at 4:00 on Friday morning and sent a copy to Blomkvist via the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. Then she lay still in bed and stared at the ceiling.

She knew that on Walpurgis Night she had had her twenty-seventh birthday, but she had not even reflected on the fact at the time. She was imprisoned. She had experienced the same thing at St. Stefan’s. If things did not go right for her, there was a risk that she would spend many more birthdays in some form of confinement.

She was not going to accept a situation like that.

The last time she had been locked up she was barely into her teens. She was grown up now, and had more knowledge and skills. She wondered how long it would take for her to escape and settle down safely in some other country to create a new identity and a new life for herself.

She got up from the bed and went to the bathroom, where she looked in the mirror. She was no longer limping. She ran her fingers over her hip where the wound had healed to a scar. She twisted her arms and stretched her left shoulder back and forth. It was tight, but she was more or less healed. She tapped herself on the head. She supposed that her brain had not been too greatly damaged after being perforated by a bullet with a full-metal jacket.

She had been extraordinarily lucky.

Until she had access to a computer, she had spent her time trying to work out how to escape from this locked room at Sahlgrenska.

Then Dr. Jonasson and Blomkvist had upset her plans by smuggling in her Palm. She had read Blomkvist’s articles and brooded over what he had to say. She had done a risk assessment and pondered his plan, weighing her chances. She had decided that for once she was going to do as he advised. She would test the system. Blomkvist had convinced her that she had nothing to lose, and he was offering her a chance to escape in a very different way. If the plan failed, she would simply have to plot her escape from St. Stefan’s or whichever other nuthouse they put her in.

What actually convinced her to decide to play the game Blomkvist’s way was her desire for revenge.

She forgave nothing.

Zalachenko, Björck, and Bjurman were dead.

Teleborian, on the other hand, was alive.

So too was her brother, the so-called Ronald Niedermann, even though in reality he was not her problem. Certainly, he had helped in the attempt to murder and bury her, but he seemed peripheral. If I run into him sometime, we’ll see, but until such time, he’s the police’s problem.

Yet Blomkvist was right: behind the conspiracy there had to be others not known to her who had contributed to the shaping of her life. She had to put names and social security numbers to these people.

So she had decided to go along with Blomkvist’s plan. That was why she had written the plain, unvarnished truth about her life in a cracklingly terse autobiography of forty pages. She had been quite precise. Everything she had written was true. She had accepted Blomkvist’s reasoning that she had already been so savaged in the Swedish media by such grotesque libels that a little sheer nonsense could not possibly further damage her reputation.

The autobiography was a fiction in the sense that she had not, of course, told the whole truth. She had no intention of doing that.

She went back to bed and pulled the covers over her.

She felt a niggling irritation that she could not identify. She reached for a notebook, given to her by Giannini and hardly used. She turned to the first page, where she had written:

(x³ + y³ = z³)

She had spent several weeks in the Caribbean last winter working herself into a frenzy over Fermat’s Last Theorem. When she came back to Sweden, before she got mixed up in the hunt for Zalachenko, she had kept on playing with the equations. What was maddening was that she had the feeling she had seen a solution . . . that she had discovered a solution.

But she could not remember what it was.

Not being able to remember something was a phenomenon unknown to Salander. She had tested herself by going on the Net and picking out random HTML codes that she glanced at, memorized, and reproduced exactly.

She had not lost her photographic memory, which she had always considered a curse.

Everything was running as usual in her head.

Save for the fact that she thought she recalled seeing a solution to Fermat’s theorem, but she could not remember how, when, or where.

The worst thing was that she did not have the least interest in it. Fermat’s theorem no longer fascinated her. That was ominous. That was just the way she usually functioned. She would be fascinated by a problem, but as soon as she had solved it, she lost interest.

That was how she felt about Fermat. He was no longer a demon riding on her shoulder, demanding her attention and vexing her intellect. It was an ordinary formula, some squiggles on a piece of paper, and she felt no desire at all to engage with it.

This bothered her. She put down the notebook.

She should get some sleep.

Instead she took out her Palm again and went on the Net. She thought for a moment and then went into Armansky’s hard drive, which she had not done since she got the hand-held. Armansky was working with Blomkvist, but she had not had any particular need to read what he was up to.

Absentmindedly she read his email.

She found the assessment Rosin had carried out of Berger’s house. She could scarcely believe what she was reading. Erika Berger has a stalker.

She found a message from Susanne Linder, who had evidently stayed at Berger’s house the night before and who had emailed a report late that night. She looked at the time of the message. It had been sent just before 3:00 in the morning and reported Berger’s discovery that diaries, letters and photographs, along with a video of a personal nature, had been stolen from a chest of drawers in Berger’s bedroom.

Salander updated her download of Armansky’s hard drive and then switched off the Palm, lost in thought. She had mixed feelings.

She had no reason to love Berger. She remembered still the humiliation she had felt when she saw her walk off down Hornsgatan with Blomkvist the day before New Year’s Eve a year and a half ago.

It had been the stupidest moment of her life and she would never again allow herself those sorts of feelings.

She remembered the terrible hatred she had felt, and her desire to run after them and hurt Berger.

Embarrassing.

She was cured.

But she had no reason to sympathize with Berger.

She wondered what the video “of a personal nature” contained. She had her own film of a personal nature, which showed how Advokat Bastard Bjurman had raped her. And it was now in Blomkvist’s keeping. She wondered how she would have reacted if someone had broken into her place and stolen the DVD. Which Blomkvist by definition had actually done, even though his motives were not to harm her.

Hmm. An awkward situation.

Berger had not been able to sleep on Thursday night. She hobbled restlessly back and forth while Linder kept a watchful eye on her. Her anxiety lay like a heavy fog over the house.

At 2:30 Linder managed to talk Berger into getting into bed to rest, even if she did not sleep. She heaved a sigh of relief when Berger closed her bedroom door. She opened her laptop and summarized the situation in an email to Armansky. She had scarcely sent the message before she heard that Berger was up and moving about again.

At 7:30 she made Berger call SMP and take a sick day. Berger had reluctantly agreed and then fallen asleep on the living-room sofa in front of the boarded-up picture window. Linder spread a blanket over her. Then she made some coffee and called Armansky, explaining her presence at the house and that she had been called in by Rosin.

“Stay there with Berger,” Armansky told her, “and get a couple of hours’ sleep yourself.”

“I don’t know how we’re going to bill this—”

“We’ll work that out later.”

Berger slept until 2:30. She woke up to find Linder sleeping in a recliner on the other side of the living room.

Figuerola slept late on Friday morning; she did not have time for her morning run. She blamed Blomkvist for this state of affairs as she showered and then rousted him out of bed.

Blomkvist drove to Millennium, where everyone was surprised to see him up so early. He mumbled something, made some coffee, and called Eriksson and Cortez into his office. They spent three hours going over the articles for the themed issue and keeping track of the book’s progress.

“Dag’s book went to the printer yesterday,” Eriksson said. “We’re going down the perfect-bound trade paperback route.”

“The special issue is going to be called ‘The Lisbeth Salander Story,’” Cortez said. “They’re bound to move the date of the trial, but at the moment it’s set for Wednesday, July 13. The magazine will be printed by then, but we haven’t fixed on a distribution date yet. You can decide nearer the time.”

“Good. That leaves the Zalachenko book, which right now is a nightmare. I’m calling it The Section. The first half is basically what’s in the magazine. It begins with the murders of Dag and Mia, and then follows the hunt for Salander first, then Zalachenko, and then Niedermann. The second half will be everything we know about the Section.”

“Mikael, even if the printer breaks every record for us, we’re going to have to send them the files by the end of this month—at the latest,” Eriksson said. “Christer will need a couple of days for the layout, the typesetter, say, a week. So we have about two weeks left for the text. I don’t know how we’re going to make it.”

“We won’t have time to dig up the whole story,” Blomkvist conceded. “But I don’t think we could manage that even if we had a whole year. What we’re going to do in this book is to state what happened. If we don’t have a source for something, then I’ll say so. If we’re flying kites, we’ll make that clear. So, we’re going to write about what happened, what we can document, and what we believe to have happened.”

“That’s pretty vague,” Cortez said.

Blomkvist shook his head. “If I say that a Säpo agent broke into my apartment and I can document it—and him—with a video, then it’s documented. If I say that he did it on behalf of the Section, then that’s speculation, but in the light of all the facts we’re setting out, it’s a reasonable speculation. Does that make sense?”

“It does.”

“I won’t have time to write all the missing pieces myself. I have a list of articles here that you, Henry, will have to cobble together. It corresponds to about fifty pages of book text. Malin, you’re backup for Henry, just as when we were editing Dag’s book. All three of our names will be on the cover and on the title page. Is that all right with you two?”

“That’s fine,” Eriksson said. “But we have other urgent problems.”

“Such as?”

“While you were concentrating on the Zalachenko story, we had a hell of a lot of work to do here—”

“You’re saying I wasn’t available?”

Eriksson nodded.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. We all know that when you’re in the throes of a story, nothing else matters. But that won’t work for the rest of us, and it definitely doesn’t work for me. Erika had me to lean on. I have Henry, and he’s an ace, but he’s putting in an equal amount of time on your story. Even if we count you in, we’re still two people short in editorial.”

“Two?”

“And I’m not Erika. She had a routine that I can’t compete with. I’m still learning this job. Monika is working her backside off. And so is Lotta. Nobody has a moment to stop and think.”

“This is all temporary. As soon as the trial begins—”

“No, Mikael. It won’t be over then. When the trial begins, it’ll be sheer hell. Remember what it was like during the Wennerström affair? We won’t see you for three months while you hop from one TV interview sofa to another.”

Blomkvist sighed. “What do you suggest?”

“If we’re going to run Millennium effectively during the fall, we’re going to need new blood. Two people at least, maybe three. We just don’t have the editorial capacity for what we’re trying to do, and . . .”

“And?”

“And I’m not sure that I’m ready to do it.”

“I hear you, Malin.”

“I mean it. I’m a damn good managing editor—it’s a piece of cake with Erika as your boss. We said that we were going to try this over the summer . . . well, we’ve tried it. I’m not a good editor in chief.”

“Nonsense,” Cortez said.

Eriksson shook her head.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Blomkvist said, “but remember that it’s been an extreme situation.”

Eriksson smiled at him sadly. “You could take this as a complaint from the staff,” she said.

The operations unit of Constitutional Protection spent Friday trying to get a handle on the information they had received from Blomkvist. Two of their team had moved into a temporary office at Fridhemsplan, where all the documentation was being assembled. It was inconvenient because the police intranet was at headquarters, which meant that they had to walk back and forth between the two buildings several times a day. Even if it was only a ten-minute walk, it was tiresome. By lunchtime they already had extensive documentation of the fact that both Fredrik Clinton and Hans von Rottinger had been associated with the Security Police in the sixties and early seventies.

Von Rottinger came originally from the military intelligence service and worked for several years in the office that coordinated military defence with the Security Police. Clinton’s background was in the air force, and he began working for the Personal Protection Unit of the Security Police in 1967.

They had both left SIS: Clinton in 1971 and von Rottinger in 1973. Clinton had gone into business as a management consultant, and von Rottinger had entered the civil service to do investigations for the Swedish Atomic Energy Agency. He was based in London.

It was late afternoon by the time Figuerola was able to convey to Edklinth with some certainty the discovery that Clinton’s and von Rottinger’s careers after they left SIS were falsifications. Clinton’s career was hard to follow. Being a consultant for industry can mean almost anything at all, and a person in that role is under no obligation to report his activities to the government. From his tax returns it was clear that he made good money, but his clients were for the most part corporations with home offices in Switzerland or Liechtenstein, so it was not easy to prove that his work was a fabrication.

Von Rottinger, on the other hand, had never set foot in the office in London where he supposedly worked. In 1973 the office building where he had claimed to be working was in fact torn down and replaced by an extension to King’s Cross station. No doubt someone made a blunder when the cover story was devised. In the course of the day Figuerola’s team had interviewed a number of people now retired from the Swedish Atomic Energy Agency. Not one of them had heard of Hans von Rottinger.

“Now we know,” Edklinth said. “We just have to discover what it was they really were doing.”

Figuerola said: “What do we do about Blomkvist?”

“In what sense?”

“We promised to give him feedback if we uncovered anything about Clinton and von Rottinger.”

Edklinth thought about it. “He’s going to be digging up that stuff himself if he keeps at it for a while. It’s better that we stay on good terms with him. You can give him what you’ve found. But use your judgement.”

Figuerola promised that she would. They spent a few minutes making arrangements for the weekend. Two of Figuerola’s team were going to keep working. She would be taking the weekend off.

Then she clocked out and went to the gym at St. Eriksplan, where she spent two hours driving herself hard to catch up on lost training time. She was home by 7:00. She showered, made a simple dinner, and turned on the TV to listen to the news. But then she got restless and put on her running clothes. She paused at the front door to think. Fucking Blomkvist. She flipped open her mobile and called his Ericsson.

“We found out a certain amount about von Rottinger and Clinton.”

“Tell me.”

“I will if you come over.”

“Sounds like blackmail,” Blomkvist said.

“I’ve just changed into jogging things to work off a little of my surplus energy,” Figuerola said. “Should I go now or should I wait for you?”

“Would it be OK if I came after 9:00?”

“That’ll be fine.”

At 8:00 on Friday evening Salander had a visit from Dr. Jonasson. He sat in the guest chair and leaned back.

“Are you going to examine me?” Salander said.

“No. Not tonight.”

“OK.”

“We studied all your notes today and we’ve informed the prosecutor that we’re prepared to discharge you.”

“I understand.”

“They want to take you over to the prison in Göteborg tonight.”

“So soon?”

He nodded. “Stockholm is making noises. I said I had a number of final tests to run on you tomorrow and that I couldn’t discharge you until Sunday.”

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t know. I was just annoyed they were being so pushy.”

Salander actually smiled. Given a few years she would probably be able to make a good anarchist out of Dr. Anders Jonasson. In any case he had a penchant for civil disobedience on a private level.

“Fredrik Clinton,” Blomkvist said, staring at the ceiling above Figuerola’s bed.

“If you light that cigarette I’ll stub it out in your navel,” Figuerola said.

Blomkvist looked in surprise at the cigarette he had extracted from his jacket.

“Sorry,” he said. “Could I borrow your balcony?”

“As long as you brush your teeth afterwards.”

He tied a sheet around his waist. She followed him to the kitchen and filled a large glass with cold water. Then she leaned against the door frame by the balcony.

“Clinton first?”

“If he’s still alive, he’s the link to the past.”

“He’s dying; he needs a new kidney and spends a lot of his time in dialysis or some other treatment.”

“But he’s alive. We should contact him and put the question to him directly. Maybe he’ll talk.”

“No,” Figuerola said. “First of all, this is a preliminary investigation, and the police are handling it. In that sense, there is no ‘we’ about it. Second, you’re receiving this information in accordance with your agreement with Edklinth, but you’ve given your word not to take any initiatives that could interfere with the investigation.”

Blomkvist smiled at her. “Ouch,” he said. “The Security Police are pulling on my leash.” He stubbed out his cigarette.

“Mikael, this is not a joke.”

Berger drove to the office on Saturday morning still feeling queasy. She had thought she was beginning to come to grips with the actual process of producing a newspaper and had planned to reward herself with a weekend off—the first since she started at SMP—but the discovery that her most personal and intimate possessions had been stolen, and the Borgsjö 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 fucking 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 SMP. 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 there are 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 Norrköping 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 SMP. 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 Borgsjö 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 ICQ account pinged. She looked in astonishment at the icon bar. She knew what ICQ was but she seldom chatted, and she had not used the programme since starting at SMP.

She clicked hesitantly on Answer.

<Hi, Erika.>

<Hi. Who’s this?>

<Private. Are you alone?>

A trick? Poison Pen?

<Who are you?>

<We met at Kalle Blomkvist’s place when he came home from Sandhamn.>

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 I am?>

<How do I know this isn’t a bluff?>

<I know how Mikael got that scar on his neck.>

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

<But how can you be chatting with me?>

<I’m pretty 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?

<I believe it.>

<Can I trust you?>

<How do you mean?>

<This conversation must not be leaked.>

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.

<No problem. What do you want?>

<To pay my debt.>

<What do you mean?>

<Millennium backed me up.>

<We were just doing our job.>

<No other publication did.>

<You’re not guilty of what you were accused of.>

<You have a stalker.>

Berger’s heart beat furiously.

<What do you know?>

<Stolen video. Break-in.>

<Correct. 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.

<Dunno. Let me try.>

<How?>

<Question. You think the creep is at SMP?>

<I can’t prove it.>

<Why do you think so?>

Berger thought for a while before she replied.

<Just a hunch. It started when I began working at SMP. Other people here have received crude messages from Poison Pen that looked as though they came from me.>

<Poison Pen?>

<My name for the creep.>

<OK. Why did you become the object of Poison Pen’s attention?>

<No idea.>

<Is there anything to suggest that it’s personal?>

<How do you mean?>

<How many employees at SMP?>

<230 give or take, including the publishing company.>

<How many do you know personally?>

<Can’t say. I’ve met several journalists and other colleagues over the years.>

<Anyone you argued with before you went to SMP?>

<Nobody that I can think of.>

<Anyone who might want to get revenge?>

<Revenge? What for?>

<Revenge is a powerful motive.>

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

<Still there?>

<Yes. Why do you ask about revenge?>

<I read Rosin’s list of all the incidents you connect to Poison Pen.>

Why am I not surprised?

<And???>

<Doesn’t feel like a stalker.>

<Why not?>

<Stalkers are driven by sexual obsession. This looks like somebody imitating a stalker. Screwdriver in your cunt . . . hello? Pure parody.>

<You think?>

<I’ve seen real stalkers. They’re considerably more perverted, coarse, and grotesque. They express love and hate at the same time. This just doesn’t feel right.>

<You don’t think it’s perverted enough?>

<No. Mail to Eva Carlsson all wrong. Somebody who wants to get even.>

<Wasn’t thinking along those lines.>

<Not a stalker. Personal against you.>

<OK. What do you suggest?>

<Can you trust me?>

<Maybe.>

<I need access to SMP’s intranet.>

<Whoa, hold everything.>

<Now. I’m going to be moved soon and lose the Net.>

Berger hesitated for ten seconds. Open up SMP to . . . what? A complete loony? Salander might be innocent of murder, but she was definitely not normal.

But what did she have to lose?

<How?>

<I have to load a programme into your computer.>

<We have firewalls.>

<You have to help. Start the Internet.>

<Already logged on.>

<Explorer?>

<Yes.>

<I’ll type an address. Copy and paste it into Explorer.>

<Done.>

<Now you see a list of programmes. Click on Asphyxia Server and download it.>

Berger followed the instruction.

<Done.>

<Start Asphyxia. Click on Install and choose Explorer.>

It took three minutes.

<Done. OK. Now you have to reboot your computer. We’ll lose contact for a minute.>

<Got you.>

<When we reboot I’m going to copy your hard disk to a server on the Net.>

<OK.>

<Restart. Talk to you soon.>

Berger stared in fascination at the screen as her computer slowly rebooted. She wondered whether she was crazy. Then her ICQ pinged.

<Hi again.>

<Hi.>

<It’ll be faster if you do it. Start up the Internet and copy in the address I email you.>

<Done.>

<Now you see a question. Click on Start.>

<Done.>

<Now you’re asked to name the hard disk. Call it SMP-2.>

<Done.>

<Go and get a coffee. This is going to take a while.>

Figuerola woke at 8:00 on Saturday morning, about two hours later than usual. She sat up in bed and looked at the man beside her. He was snoring. Well, nobody’s perfect.

She wondered where this affair with Blomkvist was going to lead. He was obviously not the faithful type, so no point in looking forward to a long-term relationship. She knew that much from his biography. Anyway, she was not so sure she wanted a stable relationship herself—with a partner and a mortgage and kids. After a dozen failed relationships since her teens, she was tending towards the theory that stability was overrated. Her longest had been with a colleague in Uppsala—they had shared an apartment for two years.

But she was not someone who went in for one-night stands, although she did think that sex was an underrated therapy for just about all ailments. And sex with Blomkvist, out of shape as he was, was just fine. More than just fine, actually. Plus, he was a good person. He made her want more.

A summer romance? A love affair? Was she in love?

She went to the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth. Then she put on her shorts and a thin jacket and quietly left the apartment. She stretched and went on a forty-five-minute run out past Rålambshov hospital and around Fredhäll and back via Smedsudden. She was home by 9:00 and discovered Blomkvist still asleep. She bent down and bit him on the ear. He opened his eyes in bewilderment.

“Good morning, darling. I need somebody to scrub my back.”

He looked at her and mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

“You don’t need to take a shower. You’re soaked to the skin already.”

“I’ve been running. You should come along.”

“If I tried to go at your pace, I’d have a heart attack on Norr Mälarstrand.”

“Nonsense. Come on, time to get up.”

He scrubbed her back and soaped her shoulders. And her hips. And her stomach. And her breasts. And after a while she had completely lost interest in her shower and pulled him back to bed.

They had their coffee at the outdoor café beside Norr Mälarstrand.

“You could turn out to be a bad habit,” she said. “And we’ve only known each other a few days.”

“I find you incredibly attractive. But you know that already.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Sorry, can’t answer that question. I’ve never understood why I’m attracted to one woman and totally uninterested in another.”

She smiled thoughtfully. “I have today off,” she said.

“But I don’t. I have a mountain of work before the trial begins, and I’ve spent the last three evenings with you instead of getting on with it.”

“What a shame.”

He stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She took hold of his shirtsleeve.

“Blomkvist, I’d like to spend some more time with you.”

“Same here. But it’s going to be a little up and down until we put this story to bed.”

He walked away down Hantverkargatan.

Berger got some coffee and watched the screen. For fifty-three minutes absolutely nothing happened except that her screen saver started up from time to time. Then her ICQ pinged again.

<Ready. You have a whole bunch of shit on your hard drive, including a couple of viruses.>

<Sorry. What’s the next step?>

<Who’s the admin for SMP’s intranet?>

<Don’t know. Probably Peter Fleming, our IT manager.>

<Right.>

<What should I do?>

<Nothing. Go home.>

<Just like that?>

<I’ll be in touch.>

<Should I leave the computer on?>

But Salander was gone from her ICQ. Berger stared at the screen in frustration. Finally she turned off the computer and went out to find a café where she could sit and think.