David Lagercrantz - The Girl in the Spider's Web

“So the good news is that you got shot and not the boy?” he said.

“Something like that,” she said.

“Should I take you to the Karolinska hospital?”

“No.”

Salander had found both the entry and exit holes. The bullet must have gone straight through the front of her shoulder, which was bleeding profusely — she could feel her heart pounding all the way up to her temples. But she did not think any artery had been severed, or at least so she hoped. She looked back. The attacker must have had a getaway car somewhere close by, but nobody seemed to be following them. With any luck they had managed to escape fast enough.

She quickly looked down at the boy — August — who was sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, rocking backwards and forwards. It struck Salander that she ought to do something, so she brushed the glass fragments from the boy’s hair and legs, and that made him sit still for a moment. Salander was not sure that was a good sign. The look in his eyes was rigid and blank. She nodded at him and tried to look as if she had the situation under control. She was feeling sick and dizzy and the T-shirt she had wound around her shoulder was by now soaked in blood. She was afraid that she might be losing consciousness and tried to come up with some sort of plan. One thing was crystal clear: the police were not an option. They had led the boy right into the path of the assailant and were plainly not on top of the situation. So what should she do?

She could not stay in this car. It had been seen at the shooting and the shattered rear window was bound to attract attention. She should get the man to drive her home to Fiskargatan. Then she could take her B.M.W., registered to Irene Nesser, if only she had the strength to drive it.

“Head towards Västerbron!” she ordered.

“O.K., O.K.,” said the man driving.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“A bottle of whisky — I was going to give it to my uncle.”

“Pass it back here,” she said, and was handed a bottle of Grant’s, which she opened with difficulty.

She tore off her makeshift bandage and poured whisky onto the bullet wound. She took one, two, three big mouthfuls, and was just offering some to August when it dawned on her that that perhaps was not such a good idea. Children don’t drink whisky. Not even children in shock. Her thoughts were getting confused. Was that what was happening?

“You’ll have to give me your shirt,” she said to the man up front.

“What?”

“I need something else to bandage my shoulder with.”

“O.K., but—”

“No buts.”

“If you want me to help you, you could at least tell me why you were being shot at. Are you criminals?”

“I’m trying to protect the boy, it’s that simple. Those bastards were after him.”

“Why?”

“None of your business.”

“So he’s not your son.”

“I don’t even know him.”

“So why are you helping him?”

Salander hesitated.

“We have the same enemies,” she said. At that the young man pulled off his V-necked pullover — with a certain amount of reluctance and difficulty — as he steered the car with his other hand. Then he unbuttoned his shirt, took it off and handed it back to Salander, who wound it gingerly around her shoulder. August, who was worryingly immobile now, looked down at his skinny legs with a frozen expression, and once again Salander asked herself what she ought to be doing.

They could hide out at her place on Fiskargatan. Blomkvist was the only person who knew the address, and the apartment could not be traced through her name on any public register. But it was still a risk. There had been a time when she was known up and down the country as a complete lunatic, and this enemy was certainly skilled at digging up information.

Someone on Sveavägen might have recognized her; the police might already be turning everything upside down to find her. She needed a new hiding place, not linked to any of her identities, and so she needed help. But from whom? Holger?

Her former guardian, Holger Palmgren, had almost recovered from his stroke and was living in a two-room apartment on Liljeholmstorget. Holger was the only person who really knew her. He was loyal to a fault and would do everything in his power to help. But he was elderly and anxious and she did not want to drag him into this if she could help it.

There was Blomkvist of course, and in fact there was nothing wrong with him. Still, she was reluctant to contact him again — perhaps precisely because there was nothing wrong with him. He was such a damn good person. But what the hell... you could hardly hold that against him, or at least not too much. She called his mobile. He picked up after just one ring, sounding alarmed.

“It’s such a relief to hear your voice! What the hell has happened?”

“I can’t tell you now.”

“It looks like one of you’s been shot. There’s blood here.”

“The boy’s O.K.”

“And you?”

“I’m O.K.”

“You’ve been shot.”

“You’ll have to wait, Blomkvist.”

She looked out at the town and saw that they were close to Västerbron already. She turned to the driver:

“Pull up there, by the bus stop.”

“Are you getting out?”

“ You’re getting out. You’re going to give me your mobile and wait outside while I talk. Is that clear?”

He glanced at her, terrified, then passed back his mobile, stopped the car and got out. Salander continued her conversation.

“What’s going on?” Blomkvist said.

“Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “From now on I want you to carry an Android phone with you, a Samsung or something. You must have one at the office?”

“Yes, I think there are a couple.”

“Good. So go straight into Google Play and install the Redphone app and also the Threema app for text messaging. We need a secure line of communication.”

“Right.”

“If you’re as much of an idiot as I think you are, whoever helps you do it has to remain anonymous. I don’t want any weak links.”

“Of course.”

“And then...”

“Yes?”

“Only use it in an emergency. All other communication should be through a special link on your computer. You or the person who isn’t an idiot needs to go into www.pgpi.org and download an encryption program for your emails. I want you to do that right now, then I want you to find a safe hiding place for the boy and me — somewhere not connected to you or Millennium — and let me have the address in an encrypted email.”

“It’s not your job to keep the boy safe, Lisbeth.”

“I don’t trust the police.”

“Then we’ll have to find someone else you do trust. The boy is autistic, he has special needs. I don’t think you should be responsible for him, especially not if you’re wounded...”

“Are you going to keep talking crap or do you want to help me?”

“Help you of course.”

“Good. Check LISBETH STUFF in five minutes. I’ll give you more information there. Then delete it.”

“Lisbeth, listen to me, you need to get to a hospital. You need to be fixed up. I can tell by your voice...”

She hung up, waved the young man back in from the bus stop, got out her laptop and through her mobile hacked into Blomkvist’s computer. She wrote out instructions on how to download and install the encryption program.