David Lagercrantz - The Girl in the Spider's Web

O’Connor muttered something inaudible and stormed off.

Needham knew as well as anyone that O’Connor was fighting for political survival and could not afford to make any reckless moves. He himself was fed up with working his fingers to the bone, and he loped over to Casales to chat with her instead. He was in the mood for something irresponsible.

“Let’s go get hammered and forget this whole fucking mess.”

Hanna Balder was standing in her snow boots on the little hill outside Hotel Schloss Elmau. She gave August a push and watched him whizz down the slope on the old-fashioned wooden toboggan the hotel had lent them. He came to a stop near a brown barn. Even though there was a glimmer of sunshine, a light snow was falling. There was hardly any wind. In the far distance the mountain peaks touched the sky and wide-open spaces stretched out before her.

Hanna had never stayed in such a wonderful place, and August was recovering well, not least thanks to Charles Edelman’s efforts. But none of it was easy. She felt terrible. Even here on the slope she had stopped twice and felt her chest. Withdrawal from her pills — benzodiazepines — was worse than she could have imagined. At night she would lie in bed curled up like a shrimp and examine her life in the most unsparing light, sometimes banging her fist against the wall and crying. She cursed Lasse Westman, and she cursed herself.

And yet... there were times when she felt strangely purified and occasionally she came close to being happy. There were moments when August was sitting with his equations and his number series and he would even answer her questions — albeit in monosyllables and somewhat odd terms.

The boy was still an enigma to her. Sometimes he spoke in numbers, in high numbers to the power of even higher numbers, and seemed to think that she would understand. But something had indeed changed, and she would never forget how she had seen August sitting at the desk in their hotel room that first day, writing out long winding equations which poured from him with amazing fluency, and which she photographed and sent on to the woman in Stockholm. Late that evening a text message had come in on her Blackphone:

She had never seen her son so happy and proud. Even though she could have no idea what it was all about and never mentioned it, even to Edelman, it meant the world to her. She began to feel proud too, immeasurably proud.

She developed a passionate interest in savant syndrome, and when Charles was staying at the hotel they often sat up after August had gone to bed and talked into the small hours about her son’s abilities, and about everything else too.

She was not sure that it had been such a good idea to jump into bed with Charles. Yet she was not sure it had been a bad idea either. Charles reminded her of Frans. They formed a little family of sorts: she, August, Charles, Charlotte Greber, the rather strict but kind teacher, and the Danish mathematician Jens Nyrup who visited them. Their whole stay was a voyage of discovery into her son’s remarkable universe. As she now sauntered down the snowy hill and August got up from the toboggan, she felt, for the first time in ages, she would become a better mother, and she would sort out her life.

Blomkvist could not understand why his body felt so heavy. It was as if he were trying to move through water. And yet there was a commotion going on out there, a victory celebration. Nearly every newspaper, website, radio station and T.V. channel wanted to interview him. He did not accept any of the requests. When Millennium had published big news stories in the past, he and Berger had not been sure whether other media companies would latch on to them. They had needed to think strategically, to make sure they were syndicated in the right places and sometimes even shared their scoop. Now none of that was necessary.

The news broke with a bang all by itself. When N.S.A. head Charles O’Connor and U.S. Secretary of Commerce Stella Parker appeared at a joint press conference to apologize publicly for what had happened, the last lingering doubts about the story’s credibility were dispelled. Now a heated debate was raging on editorial pages around the world about the consequences and implications of the disclosures.

But in spite of all the fuss and the telephones which never stopped ringing, Berger had decided to arrange a last-minute party at the office. She felt they deserved to escape from all the hullaballoo for a little while and raise a glass or two. A first print run of fifty thousand copies had sold out the previous morning and the number of hits on their website, which also had an English version, had reached several million. Offers of book contracts poured in, their subscription base was growing by the minute and advertisers were queuing up to be part of it all.

They had also bought out Serner Media. Berger had managed to push the deal through a few days earlier, though it had been anything but easy. Serner’s representatives had sensed her desperation and taken full advantage, and for a while she and Blomkvist had thought that it would prove beyond them. Only at the eleventh hour, when a substantial contribution came in from an unknown company in Gibraltar, bringing a smile to Blomkvist’s face, had they been able to buy out the Norwegians. The price had been outrageously high, given the situation, but it was still a minor coup when a day later the magazine’s scoop was published and the market value of the Millennium brand rocketed. They were free and independent again, though they had hardly had time yet to enjoy it.

Journalists and photographers had even hounded them during Zander’s memorial at Pressklubben. Without exception they had wanted to offer congratulations, but Blomkvist felt smothered, and his responses had not been as gracious as he would have liked them to be. The sleepless nights and headaches continued to plague him.

Now, in the late afternoon of the following day, the furniture in the office had been hurriedly rearranged. Champagne, wine and beer and catered Japanese food had been set out on the desks. And people started to stream in, first the staff and freelancers, then a number of friends of the magazine, among them Holger Palmgren. Mikael helped him out of the lift and the two embraced.

“Our girl made it,” Palmgren said, with tears in his eyes.

“She generally does,” Blomkvist replied with a smile. He installed Palmgren in the place of honour on the sofa and gave instructions that his glass was to be kept filled.

It was good to see him there. It was good to see all sorts of old and new friends. Gabriella Grane was there too, and Chief Inspector Bublanski, who probably should not have been invited, in view of their professional relationship and Millennium ’s status as independent watchdog over the police force, but Blomkvist had wanted him to be there. Officer Bubble spent the whole evening talking to Professor Farah Sharif.

Blomkvist drank a toast with them and the others. He was wearing jeans and his best jacket, and, unusually for him, he had quite a lot to drink. But he could not shake off that empty, leaden feeling and that was because of Zander of course. Andrei was constantly in his thoughts. The moment in the office when his colleague had so nearly taken up his offer of a beer was etched in his mind, a moment which was both humdrum and life-determining. Memories of the young man came to him all the time, and Blomkvist had difficulty concentrating on conversations.

He had had enough of all the praise and flattery — the only tribute that did affect him was Pernilla’s text: — and occasionally he glanced over towards the door. Naturally Lisbeth Salander had been invited, and would have been the guest of honour had she turned up. Blomkvist had wanted to thank her for the handsome contribution to help close out the Serner dispute. But there was no sign of her. What did he expect?