David Lagercrantz - The Girl in the Spider's Web

“Lisbeth, is that you?”

“Shut up and listen,” she said.

Blomkvist was in the Millennium offices on Götgatan, in a foul mood. It was not just because he had had another bad night. It was T.T. Usually a serious and decent news agency, T.T. had put out a bulletin claiming that Mikael Blomkvist was sabotaging the murder enquiry by withholding crucial information, which he intended to publish first in Millennium .

Allegedly his aim was to save the magazine from financial disaster and rebuild his own “ruined reputation”. Blomkvist had known that the story was in the offing. He had had a long conversation with its author, Harald Wallin, the evening before. But he could not have imagined such a devastating result.

It was made up of idiotic insinuations and unsubstantiated accusations, but Wallin had nonetheless managed to produce something which sounded almost objective, almost credible. The man obviously had good sources both within the Serner Group and the police. Admittedly the headline was innocuous — PROSECUTOR CRITICAL OF MIKAEL BLOMKVIST— and there was plenty of room in the story for Blomkvist to defend himself. But whichever of his enemies was responsible he understood media logic: if a news bureau as serious as T.T. publishes a story like this one, not only does that make it legitimate for everybody else to jump on the bandwagon, it just about requires them to take a tougher line. It explained why Blomkvist woke up to the online papers saying

and

The print media were good enough to put quotation marks around the headlines. But the overall impression was nevertheless that a new truth was being served up with the breakfast coffee. A columnist by the name of Gustav Lund, who claimed to be fed up with all the hypocrisy, began his piece by writing: “Mikael Blomkvist, who has always thought of himself as a cut above the rest, has now been unmasked as the biggest cynic of us all”.

“Let’s hope they don’t start waving subpoenas at us,” said Malm, designer and part-owner of the magazine, as he stood next to Blomkvist, nervously chewing gum.

“Let’s hope they don’t call in the Marines,” Blomkvist said.

“What?”

“It was meant to be a joke.”

“Oh, O.K. But I don’t like the tone,” Malm said.

“Nobody likes it. But the best we can do is grit our teeth and get on with business as usual.”

“Your phone’s buzzing.”

“It’s always buzzing.”

“How about answering it, before they come up with anything worse?”

“Yes, yes,” Blomkvist muttered.

It was a girl. He thought he recognized the voice but, caught off guard, he could not at first place it.

“Who’s that?” he said.

“Salander,” she said, and at that he gave a big smile.

“Lisbeth, is that you?”

“Shut up and listen,” she said. And so he did.

The traffic had eased and Salander and the taxi driver, a young man called Ahmed who told her he had seen the Iraq war at close quarters and lost his mother and two brothers in terrorist attacks, had emerged onto Sveavägen and passed the Stockholm Concert Hall on their left. Salander, who was a terrible passenger, sent off yet another text message to Lindén and tried to call some other member of staff at Oden’s, anybody who could run out and warn him. No reply. She swore aloud, hoping that Blomkvist would do better.

“Is it panic stations?” Ahmed said from the driver’s seat.

When Salander replied, “Yes,” Ahmed shot the red light and got a fleeting smile out of her.

After that she focused on every metre they covered. Away to the left she caught a glimpse of the School of Economics and the Public Library — there was not far to go now. She scanned for the street numbers on the right-hand side, and at last saw the address. Thankfully there was no-one lying dead on the pavement. Salander pulled out some hundred-kronor notes for Ahmed. It was an ordinary, dreary November day, no more than that, and people were on their way to work. But wait... She looked over towards the low, green-speckled wall on the other side of the street.

A powerfully built man in a woollen hat and dark glasses was standing there, staring intently at the entrance on Sveavägen. There was something about his body language — his right hand was not visible but the arm was tensed and ready. Salander looked again at the door across the street, to the extent that she could see anything from her oblique angle, and she noticed it opening.

It opened slowly, as if the person about to come out was hesitant or found the door heavy, and all of a sudden Salander shouted to Ahmed to stop. She jumped out of the moving car, just as the man across the street raised his right hand and aimed a pistol with a telescopic sight at the door sliding slowly open.

The man who called himself Jan Holtser was not happy with the situation. The place was wide open and it was the wrong time of day. The street was too busy, and although he had done his best to cover his face, he was uncomfortable in daylight, and so near the park. More than ever he felt that he hated killing children.

But that’s the way it was and he had to accept that the situation was of his own making.

He had underestimated the boy and now he had to correct his mistake. He must not let wishful thinking or his own demons get in the way. He would keep his mind on the job, be the professional he always was and above all not think about Olga, still less recall that glassy stare which had confronted him in Balder’s bedroom.

He had to concentrate now on the doorway across the street and on his Remington pistol which he was keeping under his windbreaker. But why wasn’t anything happening? His mouth felt dry. The wind was biting. There was snow lying in the street and on the pavement and people were hurrying back and forth to work. He tightened his grip on the pistol and glanced at his watch.

It was 9.16, and then 9.17. But still no-one emerged from the doorway across the road and he cursed: was something wrong? All he had to go on was Bogdanov’s word, but that was assurance enough. The man was a wizard with computers and last night he had sat engrossed in his work, sending off fake emails and getting the language right with the help of his contacts in Sweden. Holtser had taken care of the rest: studying pictures of the place, selecting the weapon and above all organizing the getaway car — a rental which Dennis Wilton of the Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club had fixed for them under a false name and which was now standing ready three blocks away, with Bogdanov at the wheel.

Holtser sensed a movement immediately behind him and jumped. But it was just two young men walking past a little too close to him. The street seemed to be getting busier and he did not like that. In the distance a dog was barking and there was a smell, maybe food frying at McDonald’s, then... at long last... a short man in a grey overcoat and a curly-haired boy in a red quilted jacket could be seen through the glass door on the other side of the street. Holtser crossed himself with his left hand as he always did and started to take up the pressure on the trigger of his weapon. But what was happening?

The door did not open. The man hesitated and looked down at his mobile. Get a move on , Holtser thought. At last, here we go ... slowly, slowly the door was pushed open and they were on their way out, and Holtser raised his pistol, aiming at the boy’s face through the telescopic sight, and saw once more those glassy eyes. Suddenly he felt an unexpected, violent rush of excitement. Suddenly he did want to kill the boy. Suddenly he wanted to snuff out that frightening look, once and for all. But then something happened.