“What happens now?” Salander wanted to know.

“I’m going to talk to Dirch Frode tomorrow and arrange for your fee to be paid.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Blomkvist looked at her.

“Well…I reckon the job I hired you for is done,” he said.

“I’m not done with this.”

Blomkvist leaned back against the kitchen wall and met her gaze. He couldn’t read anything at all in her eyes. For half a year he had been working alone on Harriet’s disappearance, and here was another person-an experienced researcher-who grasped the implications. He made the decision on impulse.

“I know. This story has got under my skin too. I’ll talk to Frode. We’ll hire you for a week or two more as…a research assistant. I don’t know if he’ll want to pay the same rate he pays to Armansky, but we should be able to arrange a basic living wage for you.”

Salander suddenly gave him a smile. She had no wish to be shut out and would have gladly done the job for free.

“I’m falling asleep,” she said, and without further ado she went to her room and closed the door.

Two minutes later she opened the door and put out her head.

“I think you’re wrong. It’s not an insane serial killer who read his Bible wrong. It’s just a common or garden bastard who hates women.”

CHAPTER 21. Thursday, July 3-Thursday, July 10

Salander was up before Blomkvist, around 6:00. She put on some water for coffee and went to take a shower. When Blomkvist woke at 7:30, she was reading his summary of the Harriet Vanger case on his iBook. He came out to the kitchen with a towel round his waist, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“There’s coffee on the stove,” she said.

He looked over her shoulder.

“That document was password protected, dammit,” he said.

She turned and peered up at him.

“It takes thirty seconds to download a programme from the Net that can crack Word’s encryption protection.”

“We need to have a talk on the subject of what’s yours and what’s mine,” he said, and went to take a shower.

When he came back, Salander had turned off his computer and put it back in its place in his office. She had booted up her own PowerBook. Blomkvist felt sure that she had already transferred the contents of his computer to her own.

Salander was an information junkie with a delinquent child’s take on morals and ethics.

He had just sat down to breakfast when there was a knock at the front door. Martin Vanger looked so solemn that for a second Blomkvist thought he had come to bring the news of his uncle’s death.

“No, Henrik’s condition is the same as yesterday. I’m here for a quite different reason. Could I come in for a moment?”

Blomkvist let him in, introducing him to “my research assistant” Lisbeth Salander. She gave the captain of industry barely a glance and a quick nod before she went back to her computer. Martin Vanger greeted her automatically but looked so distracted that he hardly seemed to notice her. Blomkvist poured him a cup of coffee and invited him to have a seat.

“What’s this all about?”

“You don’t subscribe to the Hedestad Courier?”

“No. But sometimes I see it at Susanne’s Bridge Café.”

“Then you haven’t read this morning’s paper.”

“You make it sound as if I ought to.”

Martin Vanger put the day’s paper on the table in front of him. He had been given two columns on the front page, continued on page four. “Convicted Libel Journalist Hiding Here.” A photograph taken with a telephoto lens from the church hill on the other side of the bridge showed Blomkvist coming out of the cottage.

The reporter, Torsson, had cobbled together a scurrilous piece. He recapitulated the Wennerström affair and explained that Blomkvist had left Millennium in disgrace and that he had recently served a prison term. The article ended with the usual line that Blomkvist had declined to comment to the Hedestad Courier. Every self-respecting resident of Hedestad was put on notice that an Olympic-class shit from Stockholm was skulking around the area. None of the claims in the article was libellous, but they were slanted to present Blomkvist in an unflattering light; the layout and type style was of the kind that such newspapers used to discuss political terrorists. Millennium was described as a magazine with low credibility “bent on agitation,” and Blomkvist’s book on financial journalism was presented as a collection of “controversial claims” about other more respected journalists.

“Mikael…I don’t have words to express what I felt when I read this article. It’s repulsive.”

“It’s a put-up job,” Blomkvist said calmly.

“I hope you understand that I didn’t have the slightest thing to do with this. I choked on my morning coffee when I read it.”

“Then who did?”

“I made some calls. This Torsson is a summer work experience kid. He did the piece on orders from Birger.”

“I thought Birger had no say in the newsroom. After all, he is a councillor and political figure.”

“Technically he has no influence. But the editor in chief of the Courier is Gunnar Karlman, Ingrid’s son, who’s part of the Johan Vanger branch of the family. Birger and Gunnar have been close for many years.”

“I see.”

“Torsson will be fired forthwith.”

“How old is he?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

“Don’t fire him. When he called me he sounded like a very young and inexperienced reporter.”

“This can’t be allowed to pass without consequences.”

“If you want my opinion, the situation seems a bit absurd, when the editor in chief of a publication owned by the Vanger family goes on the attack against another publication in which Henrik Vanger is a part owner and on whose board you sit. Your editor, Karlman, is attacking you and Henrik.”

“I see what you mean, and I ought to lay the blame where it belongs. Karlman is a part owner in the corporation and has always taken pot-shots at me, but this seems more like Birger’s revenge because you had a run-in with him at the hospital. You’re a thorn in his side.”

“I believe it. That’s why I think Torsson is the last person to blame. It takes a lot for an intern to say no when the boss instructs him to write something in a certain way.”

“I could demand that you be given an apology tomorrow.”

“Better not. It would just turn into a long, drawn-out squabble that would make the situation worse.”

“So you don’t think I should do anything?”

“It wouldn’t be any use. Karlman would kick up a fuss and in the worst case you’d be painted as a villain who, in his capacity as owner, is trying to stamp on the freedom of expression.”

“Pardon me, Mikael, but I don’t agree with you. As a matter of fact, I also have the right to express my opinion. My view is that this article stinks-and I intend to make my own point of view clear. However reluctantly, I’m Henrik’s replacement on Millennium’s board, and in that role I am not going to let an offensive article like this one pass unchallenged.”

“Fair enough.”

“So I’m going to demand the right to respond. And if I make Karlman look like an idiot, he has only himself to blame.”

“You must do what you believe is right.”

“For me, it’s also important that you absolutely understand that I have nothing whatsoever to do with this vitriolic attack.”

“I believe you,” Blomkvist said.

“Besides-I didn’t really want to bring this up now, but this just serves to illustrate what we’ve already discussed. It’s important to re-install you on Millennium’s editorial board so that we can show a united front to the world. As long as you’re away, the gossip will continue. I believe in Millennium, and I’m convinced that we can win this fight together.”

“I see your point, but now it’s my turn to disagree with you. I can’t break my contract with Henrik, and the fact is that I wouldn’t want to break it. You see, I really like him. And this thing with Harriet…”