Stieg Larsson - The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

“Alright, so what do you want?”

“You want a tip about Niedermann?”

“Do I?”

“Don’t give me shit. Want to know where he is or not?”

“I’m listening.”

Salander gave him directions to the brickworks outside Norrtälje. She said that he would be there long enough for Nieminen to find him if he hurried.

She closed her mobile, started the car and drove up to the O.K. petrol station across the road. She parked so that she had a clear view of the brickworks.

She had to wait for more than two hours. It was just before 1.30 in the afternoon when she saw a van drive slowly past on the road below her. It stopped at the turning off the main road, stood there for five minutes, and then drove down to the brickworks. On this December day, twilight was setting in.

She opened the glove box and took out a pair of Minolta 16 × 50 binoculars and watched as the van parked. She identified Nieminen and Waltari with three men she did not recognize. New blood. They had to rebuild their operation.

When Nieminen and his pals had found the open door at the end of the building, she opened her mobile again. She composed a message and sent it to the police station in Norrtälje.

POLICE MURDERER R. NIEDERMANN IN OLD BRICKWORKS BY THE O.K. STATION OUTSIDE SKEDERID. ABOUT TO BE MURDERED BY S. NIEMINEN AND MEMBERS OF SVAVELSJÖ M.C. WOMEN DEAD IN PIT ON GROUND FLOOR.

She could not see any movement from the factory.

She bided her time.

As she waited she removed the S.I.M. card from her telephone and cut it up with some nail scissors. She rolled down the window and tossed out the pieces. Then she took a new S.I.M. card from her wallet and inserted it in her mobile. She was using a Comviq cash card, which was virtually impossible to track. She called Comviq and credited 500 kronor to the new card.

Eleven minutes after her message was sent, two police vans with their sirens off but with blue lights flashing drove at speed up to the factory from the direction of Norrtälje. They parked in the yard next to Nieminen’s van. A minute later two squad cars arrived. The officers conferred and then moved together towards the brickworks. Salander raised her binoculars. She saw one of the policemen radio through the registration number of Nieminen’s van. The officers stood around waiting. Salander watched as another team approached at high speed two minutes later.

Finally it was all over.

The story that had begun on the day she was born had ended at the brickworks.

She was free.

When the policemen officers took out assault rifles from their vehicles, put on Kevlar vests and started to fan out around the factory site, Salander went inside the shop and bought a coffee and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane. She ate standing at a counter in the café.

It was dark by the time she got back to her car. Just as she opened the door she heard two distant reports from what she assumed were handguns on the other side of the road. She saw several black figures, presumably policemen, pressed against the wall near the entrance at one end of the building. She heard sirens as another squad car approached from the direction of Uppsala. A few cars had stopped at the side of the road below her to watch the drama.

She started the Honda, turned on to the E18, and drove home.

It was 7.00 that evening when Salander, to her great annoyance, heard the doorbell ring. She was in the bath and the water was still steaming. There was really only one person who could be at her front door.

At first she thought she would ignore it, but at the third ring she sighed, got out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around her. With her lower lip pouting, she trailed water down the hall floor. She opened the door a crack.

“Hello,” Blomkvist said.

She did not answer.

“Did you hear the evening news?”

She shook her head.

“I thought you might like to know that Ronald Niedermann is dead. He was murdered today in Norrtälje by a gang from Svavelsjö M.C.”

“Really?” Salander said.

“I talked to the duty officer in Norrtälje. It seems to have been some sort of internal dispute. Apparently Niedermann had been tortured and slit open with a knife. They found a bag at the factory with several hundred thousand kronor.”

“Jesus.”

“The Svavelsjö mob was arrested, but they put up quite a fight. There was a shoot-out and the police had to send for a back-up team from Stockholm. The bikers surrendered at around 6.00.”

“Is that so?”

“Your old friend Sonny Nieminen bit the dust. He went completely nuts and tried to shoot his way out.”

“That’s nice.”

Blomkvist stood there in silence. They looked at each other through the crack in the door.

“Am I interrupting something?” he said.

She shrugged. “I was in the bath.”

“I can see that. Do you want some company?”

She gave him an acid look.

“I didn’t mean in the bath. I’ve brought some bagels,” he said, holding up a bag. “And some espresso coffee. Since you own a Jura Impressa X7, you should at least learn how to use it.”

She raised her eyebrows. She did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

“Just company?”

“Just company,” he confirmed. “I’m a good friend who’s visiting a good friend. If I’m welcome, that is.”

She hesitated. For two years she had kept as far away from Mikael Blomkvist as she could. And yet he kept sticking to her life like gum on the sole of her shoe, either on the Net or in real life. On the Net it was O.K. There he was no more than electrons and words. In real life, standing on her doorstep, he was still fucking attractive. And he knew her secrets just as she knew all of his.

She looked at him for a moment and realized that she now had no feelings for him. At least not those kinds of feelings.

He had in fact been a good friend to her over the past year.

She trusted him. Maybe. It was troubling that one of the few people she trusted was a man she spent so much time avoiding.

Then she made up her mind. It was absurd to pretend that he did not exist. It no longer hurt her to see him.

She opened the door wide and let him into her life again.

Stieg Larsson (1954–2004) was a Swedish writer and journalist.

Prior to his sudden death of a heart attack in November 2004 he finished three detective novels in his trilogy "The Millenium-series" which were published posthumously; "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo", "The Girl Who Played With Fire" and "The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest". Altogether, his trilogy has sold more than 12 million copies worldwide (summer of 2009), and he was the second bestselling author in the world 2008.

Before his career as a writer, Stieg Larsson was mostly known for his struggle against racism and right-wing extremism. Starting in the late 1970's, he combined his work as a graphic designer with holding lectures on right-wing extremism for the Scotland Yard. During the following years he became an expert on the subject and has held many lectures as well as written many novels on the subject. In 1995, when 8 persons were killed by neo-Nazis in Sweden, he was the main force behind the founding of the Expo-foundation, a group intended on exposing neo-Nazi activity in Sweden. From 1999 and on, he was appointed chief editor of the magazine Expo.

During the last 15 years of his life, he and his life companion Eva Gabrielsson lived under constant threat from right-wing violence.