CHAPTER 24
Monday, July 11

It was 6:00 on Monday morning when Linder from Milton Security called Blomkvist on his T10.

“Don’t you people ever rest?” Blomkvist said, drunk with sleep.

He glanced at Figuerola. She was up already and had changed into jogging shorts, but had not yet put on her T-shirt.

“Sure. But the night duty officer woke me. The silent alarm we installed at your apartment went off at 3:00.”

“Did it?”

“I drove down to see what was going on. This is a bit tricky. Could you come to Milton this morning? As soon as possible, that is.”

“This is serious,” Armansky said.

It was just after 8:00 when Armansky, Blomkvist, and Linder were gathered in front of a TV monitor in a conference room at Milton Security. Armansky had also called in Johan Fräklund, a retired criminal inspector in the Solna police, now chief of Milton’s operations unit, and the former inspector Sonny Bohman, who had been involved in the Salander affair from the start. They were pondering the surveillance video that Linder had just shown them.

“What we see here is Säpo officer Jonas Sandberg opening the door to Mikael’s apartment at 3:17. He has his own keys. You will recall that Faulsson, the locksmith, made copies of the spare set when he and Göran Märtensson broke in several weeks ago.”

Armansky nodded sternly.

“Sandberg is in the apartment for approximately eight minutes. During that time he does the following things. First, he takes a small plastic bag from the kitchen, which he fills. Then he unscrews the back plate of a speaker which you have in the living room, Mikael. That’s where he places the bag. The fact that he takes a bag from your kitchen is significant.”

“It’s a Konsum bag,” Blomkvist said. “I save them to put cheese and stuff in.”

“I do the same. What matters, of course, is that the bag has your fingerprints on it. Then he takes a copy of SMP from the recycling bin in the hall. He tears off a page to wrap up an object, which he puts on the top shelf of your wardrobe. Same thing there: the paper has your fingerprints on it.”

“I get you,” Blomkvist said.

“I drive to your apartment at around 5:00,” Linder said. “I find the following items: in your speaker there are now approximately a hundred and eighty grams of cocaine. I’ve taken a sample, which I have here.”

She put a small evidence bag on the conference table.

“What’s in the wardrobe?” Blomkvist said.

“About 120,000 kronor in cash.”

Armansky motioned to Linder to turn off the TV. He turned to Fräklund.

“So Mikael Blomkvist is involved in cocaine dealing,” Fräklund said good-naturedly. “Apparently they’ve started to get a little worried about what Blomkvist is working on.”

“This is a counter-move,” Blomkvist said.

“A counter-move to what?”

“They ran into Milton’s security patrol in Morgongåva last night.”

He told them what he had heard from Figuerola about Sandberg’s expedition to the printing factory.

“That busy little rascal,” Bohman said.

“But why now?”

“They must be nervous about what Millennium might publish when the trial starts,” Fräklund said. “If Blomkvist is arrested for dealing cocaine, his credibility will drop dramatically.”

Linder nodded. Blomkvist looked sceptical.

“How are we going to handle this?” Armansky said.

“We should do nothing,” Fräklund said. “We hold all the cards. We have crystal-clear evidence of Sandberg planting the stuff in your apartment. Let them spring the trap. We can prove your innocence in a second, and besides, this will be further proof of the Section’s criminal activities. I would so love to be prosecutor when those guys are brought to trial.”

“I don’t know,” Blomkvist said slowly. “The trial starts the day after tomorrow. The magazine is on the stands on Friday, day three of the trial. If they plan to frame me for dealing cocaine, I’ll never have the time to explain how it happened before the magazine comes out. I risk sitting in prison and missing the beginning of the trial.”

“So, all the more reason for you to stay out of sight this week,” Armansky said.

“Well . . . I have to work with TV4, and I have a number of other things to do. It would be enormously inconvenient—”

“Why right now?” Linder said suddenly.

“How do you mean?” Armansky said.

“They’ve had three months to smear Blomkvist. Why do it right now? Whatever happens, they’re not going to be able to prevent publication.”

They all sat in silence for a moment.

“It might be because they don’t have a clue what you’re going to publish, Mikael,” Armansky said. “They have to suppose that you have something in the offing, but they might think all you have is Björck’s report. They have no reason to know that you’re planning on rolling up the whole Section. If it’s only about Björck’s report, then it’s certainly enough to blacken your reputation. Any revelations you might come up with would be drowned out when you’re arrested and charged. Big scandal. The famous Mikael Blomkvist arrested on a drug charge. Six to eight years in prison.”

“Could I have two copies of the video?” Blomkvist said.

“What are you going to do with them?”

“Lodge one copy with Edklinth. And in three hours I’m going to be at TV4. I think it would be prudent to have this ready to run on TV if or when all hell breaks loose.”

Figuerola turned off the DVD player and put the remote on the table. They were meeting in the temporary office on Fridhemsplan.

“Cocaine,” Edklinth said. “They’re playing a very dirty game here.”

Figuerola looked thoughtful. She glanced at Blomkvist.

“I thought it best to keep all of you up to date,” he said with a shrug.

“I don’t like this,” Figuerola said. “It implies a recklessness. Someone hasn’t really thought this through. They must realize that you wouldn’t go quietly and let yourself be thrown into Kumla bunker under arrest on a drugs charge.”

“I agree,” Blomkvist said.

“Even if you were convicted, there’s still a strong likelihood that people would believe what you have to say. And your colleagues at Millennium wouldn’t keep quiet either.”

“Furthermore, this is costing them a great deal,” Edklinth said. “They have a budget that allows them to distribute 120,000 kronor here and there without blinking, plus whatever the cocaine costs them.”

“I know, but the plan is actually not bad,” Blomkvist said. “They’re counting on Salander landing back in the asylum while I disappear in a cloud of suspicion. They’re also assuming that any attention would be focused on Säpo—not on the Section.”

“But how are they going to convince the narcotics unit to search your apartment? I mean, an anonymous tip will hardly be enough for someone to kick in the door of a star journalist. And if this is going to work, suspicion would have to be cast on you within forty-eight hours.”

“Well, we don’t really know anything about their schedule,” Blomkvist said.

He felt exhausted and longed for all this to be over. He got up.

“Where are you off to?” Figuerola said. “I’d like to know where you’re going to be for the next few days.”

“I have a meeting with TV4 at lunchtime. And at 6:00 I’m going to catch up with Erika Berger over a lamb stew at Samir’s. We’re going to fine-tune the press release. The rest of the afternoon and evening I’ll be at Millennium, I imagine.”

Figuerola’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Berger.

“I need you to stay in touch during the day. I’d prefer it if you laid low until the trial starts.”

“Maybe I could move in with you for a few days,” Blomkvist said with a playful smile.

Figuerola’s face darkened. She cast a hasty glance at Edklinth.

“Monica’s right,” Edklinth said. “I think it would be best if you stay more or less out of sight for the time being.”

“You take care of your end,” Blomkvist said, “and I’ll take care of mine.”

The host of She on TV4 could hardly conceal her excitement over the video material that Blomkvist had delivered. Blomkvist was amused at her undisguised glee. For a week they had worked like dogs to put together coherent material about the Section that they could use on TV. Her producer and the news editor at TV4 were in no doubt as to what a scoop the story would be. It was being produced in the utmost secrecy, with only a few people involved. They had agreed to Blomkvist’s insistence that the story be the lead the evening of the third day of the trial. They had decided to do an hour-long news special.

Blomkvist had given her a quantity of still photographs to work with, but on television nothing compares to the moving image. She was simply delighted when he showed her the video—in razor-sharp definition—of an identifiable police officer planting cocaine in his apartment.

“This is great TV,” she said. “Camera shot: ‘Here is Säpo planting cocaine in the reporter’s apartment.’”

“Not Säpo . . . the Section,” Blomkvist corrected her. “Don’t make the mistake of confusing the two.”

“Sandberg works for Säpo, for God’s sake,” she said.

“Sure, but in practice he should be regarded as an infiltrator. Keep the boundary line very clear.”

“Understood. It’s the Section that’s the story here. Not Säpo. Mikael, can you explain to me how it is that you keep getting mixed up in these sensational stories? And you’re right. This is going to be bigger than the Wennerström affair.”

“Sheer talent, I guess. Ironically enough, this story also begins with a Wennerström. The spy scandal of the sixties, that is.”

Berger called at 4:00. She was in a meeting with the newspaper publishers’ association, sharing her views on the planned cutbacks at SMP, which had given rise to a major conflict in the industry after she had resigned. She would not be able to make it to their dinner before 6:30.

Sandberg helped Clinton move from the wheelchair to the daybed in the room that was his command centre in the Section’s headquarters on Artillerigatan. Clinton had just returned from a whole morning spent in dialysis. He felt ancient, infinitely weary. He had hardly slept the past few days and wished that all this would soon come to an end. He had managed to make himself comfortable, sitting up in the bed, when Nyström appeared.

Clinton concentrated his energy. “Is it ready?”

“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Nikolich brothers,” Nyström said. “It’s going to cost 50,000.”

“We can afford it,” Clinton said.

Christ, if only I were young again.

He turned his head and studied Nyström and Sandberg in turn.

“No qualms of conscience?” he said.

They shook their heads.

“When?” Clinton said.

“Within twenty-four hours,” Nyström said. “It’s difficult to pin down where Blomkvist is staying, but if worst comes to worst they’ll do it outside Millennium’s offices.”

“We have a possible opportunity tonight, two hours from now,” said Sandberg.

“Oh, really?”

“Erika Berger called him a while ago. They’re going to have dinner at Samir’s Cauldron. It’s a restaurant near Bellmansgatan.”

“Berger . . . ,” Clinton said hesitantly.

“I hope for God’s sake that she doesn’t—” Nyström began.

“That wouldn’t be the end of the world,” Sandberg interrupted.

Clinton and Nyström both stared at him.

“We’re agreed that Blomkvist is our greatest threat, and that he’s going to publish something damaging in the next issue of Millennium. We can’t prevent publication, so we have to destroy his credibility. If he’s killed in what appears to be a typical underworld hit and the police then find drugs and cash in his apartment, the investigators will draw certain conclusions. They won’t initially be looking for conspiracies involving the Security Police.”

“Go on,” Clinton said.

“Erika Berger is actually Blomkvist’s lover,” Sandberg said with some force. “She’s unfaithful to her husband. If she too were to be a victim, that would lead to further speculation.”

Clinton and Nyström exchanged glances. Sandberg had a natural talent when it came to creating smokescreens. He learned fast. But Clinton and Nyström felt a surge of anxiety. Sandberg was too cavalier about life-and-death decisions. That was not good. Extreme measures were not to be employed just because an opportunity had presented itself. Murder was no easy solution; it should be resorted to only when there was no alternative.

Clinton shook his head.

Collateral damage, he thought. He suddenly felt disgust for the whole operation.

After a lifetime in service to the nation, here we sit like primitive mercenaries. Zalachenko was necessary. Björck was . . . regrettable, but Gullberg was right: Björck would have caved in. Blomkvist is . . . possibly necessary. But Erika Berger could only be an innocent bystander.

He looked steadily at Sandberg. He hoped that the young man would not develop into a psychopath.

“How much do the Nikolich brothers know?”

“Nothing. About us, that is. I’m the only one they’ve met. I used another identity and they can’t trace me. They think the killing has to do with trafficking.”

“What happens to them after the hit?”

“They leave Sweden at once,” Nyström said. “Just like after Björck. If the murder investigation yields no results, they can very cautiously return after a few weeks.”

“And the method?”

“Sicilian style. They walk up to Blomkvist, empty a magazine into him, and walk away.”

“Weapon?”

“They have an automatic. I don’t know what type.”

“I do hope they won’t spray the whole restaurant—”

“No danger of that. They’re cold-blooded; they know what they have to do. But if Berger is sitting at the same table . . .”

Collateral damage.

“Look here,” Clinton said. “It’s important that Wadensjöö doesn’t get wind of this. Especially not if Berger becomes a victim. He’s stressed to the breaking point as it is. I’m afraid we’re going to have to put him out to pasture when this is over.”

Nyström nodded.

“Which means that when we get word that Blomkvist has been shot, we’re going to have to put on a good show. We’ll call a crisis meeting and act thunderstruck by the development. We can speculate who might be behind the murder, but we’ll say nothing about the drugs until the police find the evidence.”

Blomkvist took leave of the host of She just before 5:00. They had spent the afternoon filling in the gaps in the material. Then Blomkvist had gone to make-up and subjected himself to a long interview on film.

One question had been put to him which he struggled to answer in a coherent way, and they had to film that section several times.

Blomkvist had brooded over the question long before She’s host had asked it. The Section must have considered Zalachenko an unacceptable threat, but it was still not a satisfactory answer. The reply he eventually gave was not satisfactory either:

Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Slussen. It was too early to go to Samir’s Cauldron. He stood on Södermalmstorg for a while. He was worried still, yet all of a sudden life felt right again. It was not until Berger came back to Millennium that he realized how terribly he had missed her. Besides, her retaking of the helm had not led to any internal strife; Eriksson had reverted happily to the position of managing editor, indeed was almost ecstatic—as she put it—that life would now return to normal.

Berger’s coming back had also meant that everyone discovered how incredibly understaffed they had been during the past three months. Berger had had to resume her duties at Millennium at a run, and she and Eriksson managed to tackle together some of the organizational issues that had been piling up.

Blomkvist decided to buy the evening papers and have coffee at Java on Hornsgatan to kill time before he met Berger.

Prosecutor Ragnhild Gustavsson of the National Prosecutors’ Office set her reading glasses on the conference table and studied the group. She had a lined but apple-cheeked face and short, greying hair. She had been a prosecutor for twenty-five years and had worked at the NPO since the early nineties. She was fifty-eight.

Only three weeks had passed since she had been summoned to the NPO to meet Superintendent Edklinth, director of Constitutional Protection. That day she had been busily finishing up one or two routine matters so she could begin her six-week leave at her cabin on the island of Husarö with a clear conscience. Instead she had been assigned to lead the investigation of a group of civil servants who went by the name of “the Section.” Her vacation plans had to be shelved. She had been advised that this would be her priority for the foreseeable future, and she had been given more or less free rein to shape her operational team and make the necessary decisions.

“This may prove to be one of the most sensational criminal investigations this country has witnessed,” the prosecutor general had told her.

She was beginning to think he was right.

She had listened with increasing amazement to Edklinth’s summary of the situation and the investigation he had undertaken at the instruction of the prime minister. The investigation was not yet complete, but he believed that his team had come far enough to be able to present the case to a prosecutor.

First Gustavsson had reviewed all the material that Edklinth had delivered. When the sheer scope of the criminal activity began to emerge, she realized that every decision she made would someday be pored over by historians and their readers. Since then she had spent every waking minute trying to come to grips with the numerous crimes. The case was unique in Swedish law, and since it involved charting criminal activity that had gone on for at least thirty years, she recognized the need for a very particular kind of operational team. She was reminded of the Italian government’s anti-Mafia investigators who had been forced in the seventies and eighties to work almost underground in order to survive. She knew why Edklinth himself had been bound to work in secret. He did not know whom he could trust.

Her first action was to call in three colleagues from the NPO. She selected people she had known for many years. Then she hired a renowned historian who had worked on the Crime Prevention Council to help with an analysis of the growth of Security Police responsibilities and powers over the decades. She formally appointed Inspector Figuerola head of the investigation.

At this point the investigation of the Section had taken on a constitutionally valid form. It could now be viewed like any other police investigation, even though its operation would be conducted in absolute secrecy.

Over the past two weeks Prosecutor Gustavsson had summoned a large number of individuals to official but extremely discreet interviews. As well as with Edklinth and Figuerola, interviews had been conducted with Criminal Inspectors Bublanski, Modig, Andersson, and Holmberg. She had called in Mikael Blomkvist, Malin Eriksson, Henry Cortez, Christer Malm, Advokat Giannini, Dragan Armansky, and Susanne Linder, and she had herself gone to visit Lisbeth Salander’s former guardian Holger Palmgren. Apart from the members of Millennium’s staff who on principle did not answer questions that might reveal the identity of their sources, all had readily provided detailed answers, and in some cases supporting documentation as well.

Prosecutor Gustavsson had not been at all pleased to have been presented with a timetable that had been determined by Millennium. It meant that she would have to order the arrest of a number of individuals on a specific date. She knew that ideally she would have had several months of preparation before the investigation reached its present stage, but she had no choice. Blomkvist had been adamant. Millennium was not subject to any governmental ordinances or regulations, and he intended to publish the story on day three of Salander’s trial. Gustavsson was thus compelled to adjust her own schedule to strike at the same time, so that those individuals who were under suspicion would not be given a chance to disappear along with the evidence. Blomkvist received a surprising degree of support from Edklinth and Figuerola, and the prosecutor came to see that Blomkvist’s plan had certain clear advantages. As prosecutor she would get just the kind of fully focused media backup she needed to push forward the prosecution. In addition, the whole process would move ahead so quickly that this complex investigation would not have time to leak into the halls of the bureaucracy and thus risk being unearthed by the Section.

“Blomkvist’s first priority is to achieve justice for Salander. Nailing the Section is merely a by-product,” Figuerola said.

The trial of Lisbeth Salander was to commence on Wednesday, in two days’ time. The meeting on Monday involved doing a review of the latest material available to them and dividing up the work assignments.

Thirteen people participated in the meeting. From NPO, Ragnhild Gustavsson had brought her two closest colleagues. From Constitutional Protection, Inspector Monica Figuerola had come with Bladh and Berglund. Edklinth, as director of Constitutional Protection, was sitting in as an observer.

But Gustavsson had decided that a matter of this importance could not credibly be restricted to SIS. She had therefore called in Inspector Bublanski and his team, consisting of Modig, Holmberg, and Andersson from the regular police force. They had, after all, been working on the Salander case since Easter and were familiar with all the details. Gustavsson had also called in Prosecutor Jervas and Inspector Erlander from the Göteborg police. The investigation of the Section had a direct connection to the investigation of the murder of Alexander Zalachenko.

When Figuerola mentioned that former prime minister Thorbjörn Fälldin might have to take the stand as a witness, Holmberg and Modig were scarcely able to conceal their discomfort.

For five hours they examined one individual after another who had been identified as an activist in the Section. After that they established the various crimes that could be linked to the apartment on Artillerigatan. A further nine people had been identified as being connected to the Section, although they never visited Artillerigatan. They worked primarily at SIS on Kungsholmen, but had met with some of the Section’s activists.

“It is still impossible to say how widespread the conspiracy is. We do not know under what circumstances these people meet with Wadensjöö or with anyone else. They could be informers, or they may have been given the impression that they’re working for internal affairs or something similar. So there is some uncertainty about the degree of their involvement, and that can be resolved only after we’ve had a chance to interview them. Furthermore, these are merely those individuals we have observed during the weeks the surveillance has been in effect; there could be more that we do not yet know about.”

“But the chief of Secretariat and the chief of Budget—”

“We have to assume that they’re working for the Section.”

It was 6:00 on Monday when Gustavsson gave everyone an hour’s break for dinner, after which they would reconvene.

It was just as everyone had stood up and begun to move about that Jesper Thoms, Figuerola’s colleague from CP’s operations unit, drew her aside to report on what had developed during the last few hours of surveillance.

“Clinton has been in dialysis for most of the day and got back to Artillerigatan at 3:00. The only one who did anything of interest was Nyström, although we aren’t quite sure what it was he did.”

“Tell me,” said Figuerola.

“At 1:30 he drove to Central Station and met up with two men. They walked across to the Sheraton and had coffee in the bar. The meeting lasted for about twenty minutes, after which Nyström returned to Artillerigatan.”

“So who were they?”

“They’re new faces. Two men in their mid-thirties who seem to be of eastern European origin. Unfortunately, our observer lost them when they went into the tunnelbana.”

“I see,” Figuerola said wearily.

“Here are the pictures,” Thoms said. He handed her a series of surveillance photographs.

She glanced at the enlargements of two faces she had never set eyes on before.

“Thanks,” she said, laying out the photographs on the conference table. She picked up her handbag to go and find something to eat.

Andersson, who was standing nearby, bent to look more closely at the pictures.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Are the Nikolich brothers involved in this?”

Figuerola stopped in her tracks. “Who did you say?”

“These two are seriously rotten apples,” Andersson said. “Tomi and Miro Nikolich.”

“Have you had dealings with them?”

“Sure. Two brothers from Huddinge. Serbs. We had them under observation several times when they were in their twenties and I was in the gangs unit. Miro is the dangerous one. He’s been wanted for about a year for aggravated assault. I thought they’d both gone back to Serbia to become politicians or something.”

“Politicians?”

“Right. They went to Yugoslavia in the early nineties and helped carry out ethnic cleansing. They worked for a Mafia leader, Arkan, who was running some sort of private fascist militia. They got a reputation for being shooters.”

“Shooters?”

“Hit men. They’ve been flitting back and forth between Belgrade and Stockholm. Their uncle has a restaurant in Norrmalm, and they’ve apparently worked there once in a while. We’ve had reports that they were mixed up in at least two of the killings in what was known as the ‘cigarette war,’ but we never got close to charging them with anything.”

Figuerola gazed mutely at the photographs. Then suddenly she turned pale as a ghost. She stared at Edklinth.

“Blomkvist,” she cried with panic in her voice. “They’re not just planning to involve him in a scandal, they’re planning to murder him. Then the police will find the cocaine during the investigation and draw their own conclusions.”

Edklinth stared back at her.

“He’s supposed to be meeting Erika Berger at Samir’s Cauldron,” Figuerola said. She grabbed Andersson by the shoulder. “Are you armed?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me.”

Figuerola rushed out of the conference room. Her office was three doors down. She ran in and took her service weapon from the desk drawer. Against all regulations she left the door to her office unlocked and wide open as she raced off towards the elevators. Andersson hesitated for a second.

“Go,” Bublanski told him. “Sonja, you go with them too.”

•    •    •

Blomkvist got to Samir’s Cauldron at 6:20. Berger had just arrived and found a table near the bar, not far from the entrance. He kissed her on the cheek. They both ordered lamb stew and strong beers from the waiter.

“How was the She woman?” Berger said.

“Cool, as usual.”

Berger laughed. “If you don’t watch out you’re going to become obsessed by her. Imagine, a woman who can resist the famous Blomkvist charm.”

“There are in fact several women who haven’t fallen for me over the years,” Blomkvist said. “How has your day been?”

“Wasted. But I accepted an invitation to be on a panel to debate the whole SMP business at the Publicists’ Club. That will be my final contribution.”

“Great.”

“It’s just such a relief to be back at Millennium.”

“You have no idea how good it is that you’re back. I’m still elated.”

“It’s fun to be at work again.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m happy.”

“And I have to go to the gents’,” Blomkvist said, getting up.

He almost collided with a man who had just walked in. Blomkvist noticed that he looked vaguely eastern European and was staring at him. Then he saw the sub-machine gun.

As they passed Riddarholmen, Edklinth called to tell them that neither Blomkvist nor Berger was answering their mobiles. They had presumably turned them off for dinner.

Figuerola swore and passed Södermalmstorg at a speed of close to fifty miles an hour. She kept her horn pressed down and made a sharp turn onto Hornsgatan. Andersson had to brace himself against the door. He had taken out his gun and checked the magazine. Modig did the same in the back seat.

“We have to call for backup,” Andersson said. “You don’t play games with the Nikolich boys.”

Figuerola ground her teeth.

“This is what we’ll do,” she said. “Sonja and I will go straight into the restaurant and hope they’re sitting inside. Curt, you know what these guys look like, so you stay outside and keep watch.”

“Right.”

“If all goes well, we’ll take Blomkvist and Berger straight out to the car and drive them down to Kungsholmen. If we suspect anything’s wrong, we’ll stay inside the restaurant and call for backup.”

“OK,” Modig said.

Figuerola was nearly at the restaurant when the police radio crackled beneath the dashboard.

All units. Shots fired on Tavastgatan on Södermalm. Samir’s Cauldron restaurant.

Figuerola felt a sudden lurch in her chest.

Berger saw Blomkvist bump into a man as he was heading past the entrance towards the gents’. She frowned without really knowing why. She saw the other man stare at Blomkvist with a surprised expression. She wondered if it was somebody he knew.

Then she saw the man take a step back and drop a bag to the floor. At first she did not know what she was seeing. She sat paralysed as he raised some kind of gun and aimed it at Blomkvist.

Blomkvist reacted without stopping to think. He flung out his left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and twisted it up towards the ceiling. For a microsecond the muzzle passed in front of his face.

The burst of fire from the sub-machine gun was deafening in the small room. Mortar and glass from the overhead lights rained down on Blomkvist as Miro Nikolich squeezed off eleven shots. For a moment Blomkvist looked directly into the eyes of his attacker.

Then Nikolich took a step back and yanked the gun towards him. Blomkvist was unprepared and lost his grip on the barrel. He knew at once that he was in mortal danger. Instinctively he threw himself at the attacker instead of crouching down or trying to take cover. Later he realized that if he had ducked or backed away, he would have been shot on the spot. He got a new grip on the barrel of the sub-machine gun and used his entire weight to drive the man against the wall. He heard another six or seven shots go off and tore desperately at the gun to direct the muzzle at the floor.

Berger instinctively took cover when the second series of shots was fired. She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on a chair. As she lay on the floor, she looked up and saw that three holes had appeared in the wall just behind where she had been sitting.

In shock she turned her head and saw Blomkvist struggling with the man by the door. He had fallen to his knees and was gripping the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it loose. She saw the attacker struggling to get free. He kept smashing his fist over and over into Blomkvist’s face and temple.

Figuerola braked hard opposite Samir’s Cauldron, flung open the car door, and ran across the road towards the restaurant. She had her Sig Sauer in her hand with the safety off when she noticed the car parked right outside the restaurant.

She saw one of the Nikolich brothers behind the wheel and pointed her weapon at his face behind the driver’s door.

“Police. Hands up,” she screamed.

Tomi Nikolich held up his hands.

“Get out of the car and lie facedown on the pavement,” she roared, fury in her voice. She turned and glanced at Andersson and Modig beside her. “The restaurant,” she said.

Modig was thinking of her children. It was against all police protocol to charge into a building with her weapon drawn without first having backup in place and without knowing the exact situation.

Then she heard the sound of more shots from inside.

Blomkvist had his middle finger between the trigger and the trigger guard as Miro Nikolich tried to keep shooting. He heard glass shattering behind him. He felt a searing pain as the attacker squeezed the trigger again and again, crushing his finger. As long as his finger was in place the gun could not be fired. But as Nikolich’s fist pummelled the side of his head, it suddenly occurred to him that he was too old for this sort of thing.

Have to end it, he thought.

That was his first rational thought since he had become aware of the man with the sub-machine gun.

He clenched his teeth and shoved his finger farther into the space behind the trigger.

Then he braced himself, rammed his shoulder into the attacker’s body, and forced himself back onto his feet. He let go of the gun with his right hand and raised his elbow up to protect his face from the pummelling. Nikolich switched to hitting him in the armpit and ribs. For a second they stood eye to eye again.

The next moment Blomkvist felt the attacker being pulled away from him. He felt one last devastating pain in his finger and became aware of Andersson’s huge form. The police officer literally picked up Nikolich with a firm grip on his neck and slammed his head into the wall by the door. Nikolich collapsed to the ground.

“Police! Get down! Stay still!” he heard Modig yell.

He turned his head and saw her standing with her legs apart and her gun held in both hands as she surveyed the chaos. At last she raised her gun to point it at the ceiling and looked at Blomkvist.

“Are you hurt?” she said.

In a daze Blomkvist looked back at her. He was bleeding from his forehead and his nose.

“I think I broke a finger,” he said, sitting down on the floor.

Figuerola received backup from the Södermalm armed response team less than a minute after she forced Tomi Nikolich to the pavement at gunpoint. She showed her ID and left the officers to take charge of the prisoner. Then she ran inside. She stopped in the entrance to take stock of the situation.

Blomkvist and Berger were sitting side by side. His face was bloodied and he seemed to be in shock. She sighed in relief. He was alive. Then she frowned as Berger put her arm around his shoulder. At least her face was bruised.

Modig was squatting down next to them, examining Blomkvist’s hand. Andersson was handcuffing Nikolich, who looked as though he had been hit by a truck. She saw a Swedish army model M/45 sub-machine gun on the floor.

Figuerola looked up and saw shocked restaurant staff and terror-stricken patrons, along with shattered china, overturned chairs and tables, and debris from the rounds that had been fired. She smelled cordite. But she was not aware of anyone dead or wounded in the restaurant. Officers from the armed response team began to squeeze into the room with their weapons drawn. She reached out and touched Andersson’s shoulder. He stood up.

“You said that Miro Nikolich was on our wanted list?”

“Correct. Aggravated assault. About a year ago. A street fight down in Hallunda.”

“OK. Here’s what we’ll do,” Figuerola said. “I’ll take off as fast as I can with Blomkvist and Berger. You stay here. The story is that you and Modig came here to have dinner and you recognized Nikolich from your time in the gangs unit. When you tried to arrest him he pulled a weapon and started shooting. So you sorted him out.”

Andersson looked completely astonished. “That’s not going to hold up. There are witnesses.”

“The witnesses will say that somebody was fighting and shots were fired. It only has to hold up until tomorrow’s evening papers. The story is that the Nikolich brothers were apprehended by sheer chance because you recognized them.”

Andersson surveyed the shambles all around him.

Figuerola pushed her way through the knot of police officers out on the street and put Blomkvist and Berger in the back seat of her car. She turned to the armed response team leader and spoke in a low voice with him for half a minute. She gestured towards the car in which Blomkvist and Berger were now sitting. The leader looked puzzled but at last he nodded. She drove to Zinkensdamm, parked, and turned around to her passengers.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“I took a few punches. I still have all my teeth, but my middle finger’s hurt.”

“I’ll take you to the ER at St. Göran’s.”

“What happened?” Berger said. “And who are you?”

“I’m sorry,” Blomkvist said. “Erika, this is Inspector Monica Figuerola. She works for Säpo. Monica, this is Erika Berger.”

“I worked that out all by myself,” Figuerola said in a neutral tone. She did not spare Berger a glance.

“Monica and I met during the investigation. She’s my contact at SIS.”

“I understand,” Berger said, and she began to shake as suddenly the shock set in.

Figuerola stared hard at Berger.

“What went wrong?” Blomkvist said.

“We misinterpreted the reason for the cocaine,” Figuerola said. “We thought they were setting a trap for you, to create a scandal. Now we know they wanted to kill you. They were going to let the police find the cocaine when they went through your apartment.”

“What cocaine?” Berger said.

Blomkvist closed his eyes for a moment.

“Take me to St. Göran’s,” he said.

•    •    •

“Arrested?” Clinton barked. He felt a butterfly-light pressure around his heart.

“We think it’s all right,” Nyström said. “It seems to have been sheer bad luck.”

“Bad luck?”

“Miro Nikolich was wanted on some old assault story. A policeman from the gangs unit happened to recognize him when he went into Samir’s Cauldron and wanted to arrest him. Nikolich panicked and tried to shoot his way out.”

“And Blomkvist?”

“He wasn’t involved. We don’t even know if he was in the restaurant at the time.”

“This cannot be fucking true,” Clinton said. “What do the Nikolich brothers know?”

“About us? Nothing. They think Björck and Blomkvist were both hits that had to do with trafficking.”

“But they know that Blomkvist was the target?”

“Sure, but they’re hardly going to start blabbing about being hired to do a hit. They’ll keep their mouths shut all the way to district court. They’ll do time for possession of illegal weapons and, as like as not, for resisting arrest.”

“Those damned fuck-ups,” Clinton said.

“Well, they seriously screwed up. We’ve had to let Blomkvist give us the slip for the moment, but no harm was actually done.”

It was 11:00 by the time Linder and two hefty bodyguards from Milton Security’s personal protection unit collected Blomkvist and Berger from Kungsholmen.

“You really do get around,” Linder said.

“Sorry,” Berger said gloomily.

Berger had been in a state of shock as they drove to St. Göran’s. It had dawned on her all of a sudden that both she and Blomkvist had very nearly been killed.

Blomkvist had spent an hour in the ER having his head X-rayed and his face bandaged. His left middle finger was put in a splint. The end joint was badly bruised and he would lose the fingernail. Ironically, the main injury was caused when Andersson came to his rescue and pulled Nikolich off him. Blomkvist’s middle finger had been caught in the trigger guard of the M/45 and had snapped straight across. It hurt a lot, but the injury was hardly life-threatening.

For Blomkvist the shock did not set in until two hours later, when he had arrived at Constitutional Protection at SIS and reported to Inspector Bublanski and Prosecutor Gustavsson. He began to shiver and felt so tired that he almost fell asleep between questions. At that point a certain amount of palavering ensued.

“We don’t know what they’re planning, and we have no idea whether Mikael was the only intended victim,” Figuerola said. “Or whether Erika here was supposed to die too. We don’t know if they will try again or if anyone else at Millennium is being targeted. And why not kill Salander? After all, she’s the truly serious threat to the Section.”

“I called my colleagues at Millennium while Mikael was being patched up,” Berger said. “Everyone’s going to lie extremely low until the magazine comes out. The office will be left unstaffed.”

Edklinth’s immediate reaction had been to order bodyguard protection for Blomkvist and Berger. But on reflection he and Figuerola decided that it would not be the smartest move to contact SIS’s Personal Protection unit. Berger solved the problem by declining police protection. She called Armansky to explain what had happened, which was why, later that night, Linder was called in for duty.

Blomkvist and Berger were lodged on the top floor of a safe house just beyond Drottningholm on the road to Ekerö. It was a large 1930s villa overlooking Lake Mälaren. It had an impressive garden, outbuildings, and extensive grounds. The estate was owned by Milton Security, but Martina Sjögren lived there. She was the widow of Hans Sjögren, their colleague of many years, who had died in an accident on assignment fifteen years earlier. After the funeral, Armansky had talked with Fru Sjögren and then hired her as housekeeper and general caretaker of the property. She lived rent-free in a wing of the ground floor and kept the top floor ready for those occasions, a few times each year, when Milton Security needed to hide away individuals who for real or imagined reasons feared for their safety.

Figuerola went with them. She sank onto a chair in the kitchen and allowed Fru Sjögren to serve her coffee, while Berger and Blomkvist settled in upstairs and Linder checked the alarm and electronic surveillance equipment around the property.

“There are toothbrushes and so on in the chest of drawers outside the bathroom,” Sjögren called up the stairs.

Linder and Milton’s bodyguards installed themselves in rooms on the ground floor.

“I’ve been on the go ever since I was woken at 4:00,” Linder said. “You can put together a watch schedule, but let me sleep till at least 5:00.”

“You can sleep all night. We’ll take care of this,” one of the bodyguards said.

“Thanks,” Linder said, and she went straight to bed.

Figuerola listened absent-mindedly as the bodyguards switched on the motion detector in the courtyard and drew straws to see who would take the first watch. The one who lost made himself a sandwich and went into the TV room next to the kitchen. Figuerola studied the flowery coffee cups. She too had been on the go since early morning and was feeling fairly exhausted. She was just thinking about driving home when Berger came downstairs and poured herself a cup of coffee. She sat down across from Figuerola.

“Mikael went out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow.”

“Reaction to the adrenaline,” Figuerola said.

“What happens now?”

“You’ll have to lie low for a few days. Within a week this will all be over, whichever way it ends. How are you feeling?”

“So-so. A bit shaky still. It’s not every day something like this happens. I just called my husband to explain why I wouldn’t be coming home.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m married to—”

“I know who you’re married to.”

Silence. Figuerola rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“I have to go home and get some sleep,” she said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, stop talking nonsense and go and lie down with Mikael,” Berger said.

Figuerola looked at her.

“Is it that obvious?” she said.

Berger nodded.

“Did Mikael say anything?”

“Not a word. He’s generally rather discreet when it comes to his lady friends. But sometimes he’s an open book. And you’re clearly hostile every time you even look at me. The two of you obviously have something to hide.”

“It’s my boss,” Figuerola said.

“Where does he come into it?”

“He’d fly off the handle if he knew that Mikael and I were—”

“I can see that.”

Silence.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m not your rival,” Berger said.

“You’re not?”

“Mikael and I sleep together now and then. But I’m not married to him.”

“I heard that you two had a special relationship. He told me about you when we were out at Sandhamn.”

“So you’ve been to Sandhamn? Then it is serious.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Monica, I hope that you and Mikael . . . I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

“And if you can’t?”

Berger shrugged. “His ex-wife flipped out big time when Mikael was unfaithful with me. She threw him out. It was my fault. As long as Mikael is single and available, I would have no compunction. But I promised myself that if he was ever serious about someone, then I’d keep my distance.”

“I don’t know if I dare count on him.”

“Mikael is special. Are you in love with him?”

“I think so.”

“All right, then. Just don’t tell him too soon. Now go to bed.”

Figuerola thought about it for a moment. Then she went upstairs, undressed, and crawled into bed next to Blomkvist. He mumbled something and put his arm around her waist.

Berger sat alone in the kitchen for a long time. She felt deeply unhappy.