David Lagercrantz - The Girl in the Spider's Web

Is he to be my link with the outside world?

Balder knew very little about Swedish journalists. But he did know who Blomkvist was, and was aware of his reputation as someone who always went right to the heart of his stories, never yielding to pressure. That in itself did not necessarily make him the right man for the job — plus, somehow Balder seemed to recall hearing other less flattering things — so he called Gabriella Grane again. She knew just about everything there was to know about the media scene and had said that she would be staying up late.

“Hello,” she answered right away. “I was about to get in touch. I’m just looking at that man on the C.C.T.V. We really ought to move you now, you know.”

“But my God, Gabriella, the police are here — finally. They’re sitting right outside the front door.”

“There’s no reason to suppose that the man will come through the front door.”

“Why would he come at all? The man at Milton said he looked like an old junkie.”

“I’m not so sure about that. He’s carrying some sort of box, something technical. We should play this safe.”

Balder glanced at August lying next to him.

“I’m quite happy to move tomorrow. That might help my nerves. But I’m not going anywhere tonight — your policemen seem professional, professional enough at any rate.”

“If you’re going to be stubborn about this I’ll see to it that Flinck and Blom make themselves conspicuous and cover the entire property.”

“Fine, but that’s not why I’m calling. You said I ought to go public, remember?”

“Well... yes... That’s not the kind of advice you would expect from the Security Police, is it? I still think it would be a good idea, but first I’d like you to tell us what you know. I’m feeling a little apprehensive about this story.”

“In that case let’s talk tomorrow morning, when we’ve had a good sleep. But one thing, what do you think of Mikael Blomkvist at Millennium ? Could he be the right sort of person to talk to?”

Grane gave a laugh. “If you want my colleagues to have an apoplectic fit, then definitely talk to him.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“At Säpo people avoid him like the plague. If you find Blomkvist on your doorstep, then you know your whole year is shot, they say. Everybody here, including Helena Kraft, would advise against it in the strongest terms.”

“But it’s you I’m asking.”

“Well, my answer is that your reasoning is sound. He’s a damn fine journalist.”

“Hasn’t he also come in for some criticism?”

“For sure, people have been saying that he’s past his prime and that his writing isn’t positive or upbeat enough, or whatever. But he’s an old-fashioned investigative reporter of the highest calibre. Do you have his contact details?”

“My ex-assistant gave them to me.”

“Good, great. But before you get in touch with him, you must first tell us what you have. Do you promise?”

“I promise, Gabriella. Now I’m going to sleep for a few hours.”

“Do that, and I’ll keep in touch with Flinck and Blom and arrange a safe house for you first thing in the morning.”

After he had hung up he tried again to get some rest. But it proved as impossible this time as before. The storm made him increasingly restless and worried. It felt as if something evil was travelling across the sea towards him, and he could not help listening anxiously for any unusual sounds.

It was true that he had promised Grane he would talk to her first. But he could not wait — everything he had kept bottled up for so long was throbbing to get out. He knew it was irrational; nothing could be that urgent. It was the middle of the night and, regardless of what Grane had said, he was by any reckoning safer than he had been for a long time. He had police protection and a first-rate security system. But that did not help. He was agitated, and so he got out the number Linus had given him and dialled it. But of course Blomkvist did not answer.

Why would he? It was far too late, and Balder left a voice message instead in a slightly forced, whispered voice so as not to wake August. Then he got up and put on his bedside light. On the bookshelf by the bed there was some literature which had nothing to do with his work, and both absent-minded and worried he flicked through an old novel by Stephen King, Pet Sematary . But that made him think even more about evil figures travelling through the night. For a long time he just stood there with the book in his hand — then he felt a stab of apprehension, which he might have dismissed as nonsense in broad daylight but which now seemed totally plausible. He had a sudden urge to speak to Farah or better still Steven Warburton in Los Angeles, who would be certain to be awake, and while imagining all sorts of unpleasant scenarios, he looked out to sea and the night and the restless clouds scudding across the sky. At that moment his mobile rang, as if it had heard his prayer. But it was neither Farah nor Warburton.

“My name is Mikael Blomkvist,” the voice said. “You’ve been looking for me.”

“That’s right. I’m sorry to have called so late.”

“No problem. I was awake anyway.”

“Can you talk now?”

“Absolutely, I was in fact just answering a message from a person whom I think we both know. Lisbeth Salander.”

“Who?”

“Sorry, maybe I’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I thought you had hired her to go through your computers and trace a suspected data breach.”

Balder laughed. “Yes, my God, she’s a strange girl, that one,” he said. “But she never told me her surname, even though we had a lot of contact for a while. I assumed she had her reasons, and I never pushed her. I met her at one of my lectures at the Royal Institute of Technology. I’d be happy to tell you about it; it was pretty astonishing. But what I meant to ask was... well, you’ll probably think it’s a crazy idea.”

“Sometimes I like crazy ideas.”

“You wouldn’t feel like coming over right now? It would mean a lot to me. I’m sitting on a story which I think is pretty explosive. I can pay for your taxi here and back.”

“Thanks, but I always pick up my own tab. Tell me, why do we have to talk now, in the middle of the night?”

“Because...” Balder hesitated. “Because I have a feeling this is urgent, or actually it’s more than a feeling. I’ve just been told that I’m under threat, and an hour or so ago someone was snooping around my property. I’m frightened, to be completely honest, and I want to get this information off my chest. I no longer want to be the only one in the know.”

“O.K.”

“O.K. what?”

“I’ll come — if I can manage to get hold of a taxi.”

Balder gave him the address and hung up, then called Professor Warburton in Los Angeles, and had an intense conversation with him on an encrypted line for about thirty minutes. Then he put on a pair of jeans and a black cashmere polo neck and went in search of a bottle of Amarone, in case that was the kind of thing Blomkvist might enjoy. But he got no further than the doorway before he started in fright.

He thought he had seen a movement, something flashing past, and looked anxiously towards the jetty and the sea. But it was the same desolate, storm-lashed scene as before, and he dismissed whatever it was as a figment of his imagination, a product of his nervous frame of mind, or at least he tried to. He left the bedroom and walked past the large window on his way towards the upper floor. Suddenly gripped by a new fear, he spun around again and this time he really did glimpse something over by the house next door.