CHAPTER 20

Blomkvist spent twenty-five minutes on the tunnelbana changing lines and going in different directions. He finally got off a bus at Slussen, jumped on the Katarina lift up to Mosebacke and took a circuitous route to Fiskargatan 9. He had bought bread, milk and cheese at the mini supermarket next to the County Council building and he put the groceries straight into the fridge. Then he turned on Salander’s computer.

After a moment’s thought he also turned on his Ericsson T10. He ignored his normal mobile because he did not want to talk to anyone who was not involved in the Zalachenko story. He saw that he had missed six calls in the past twenty-four hours: three from Cortez, two from Eriksson, and one from Berger.

First he called Cortez who was in a café in Vasastad and had a few details to discuss, nothing urgent.

Eriksson had only called, she told him, to keep in touch.

Then he called Berger, who was engaged.

He opened the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] and found the final version of Salander’s autobiographical statement. He smiled, printed out the document and began to read it at once.

Salander switched on her Palm Tungsten T3. She had spent an hour infiltrating and charting the intranet at S.M.P. with the help of Berger’s account. She had not tackled the Peter Fleming account because she did not need to have full administrator rights. What she was interested in was access to S.M.P.’s personnel files. And Berger’s account had complete access to those.

She fervently wished that Blomkvist had been kind enough to smuggle in her PowerBook with a real keyboard and a 17” screen instead of only the hand-held. She downloaded a list of everyone who worked at S.M.P. and began to check them off. There were 223 employees, 82 of whom were women.

She began by crossing off all the women. She did not exclude women on the grounds of their being incapable of such folly, but statistics showed that the absolute majority of people who harassed women were men. That left 141 individuals.

Statistics also argued that the majority of poison pen artists were either teenagers or middle-aged. Since S.M.P. did not have any teenagers on its staff, she drew an age curve and deleted everyone over fifty-five and under twenty-five. That left 103.

She thought for a moment. She did not have much time. Maybe not even twenty-four hours. She made a snap decision. At a stroke she eliminated all employees in distribution, advertising, the picture department, maintenance and I.T. She focused on a group of journalists and editorial staff, forty-eight men between the ages of twenty-six and fifty-four.

Then she heard the rattle of a set of keys. She turned off the Palm and put it under the covers between her thighs. This would be her last Saturday lunch at Sahlgrenska. She took stock of the cabbage stew with resignation. After lunch she would not, she knew, be able to work undisturbed for a while. She put the Palm in the recess behind the bedside table and waited while two Eritrean women vacuumed the room and changed her bedlinen.

One of the women was named Sara. She had regularly smuggled in a few Marlboro Lights for Salander during the past month. She had also given her a lighter, now hidden behind the bedside table. Salander gratefully accepted two cigarettes, which she planned to smoke by the vent window during the night.

Not until 2.00 p.m. was everything quiet again in her room. She took out the Palm and connected to the Net. She had intended to go straight back to S.M.P.’s administration, but she had also to deal with her own problems. She made her daily sweep, starting with the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table]. She saw that Blomkvist had not uploaded anything new for three days and wondered what he was working on. The son-of-a-bitch is probably out screwing around with some bimbo with big boobs.

She then proceeded to the Yahoo group [The_Knights] and checked whether Plague had added anything. He had not.

Then she checked the hard drives of Ekström (some routine correspondence about the trial) and Teleborian.

Every time she accessed Teleborian’s hard drive she felt as if her body temperature dropped a few degrees.

She found that he had already written her forensic psychiatric report, even though he was obviously not supposed to write it until after he had been given the opportunity to examine her. He had brushed up his prose, but there was nothing much new. She downloaded the report and sent it off to [Idiotic_Table]. She checked Teleborian’s emails from the past twenty-four hours, clicking through one after another. She almost missed the terse message:

Saturday, 3.00 at the Ring in Central Station. Jonas

Shit. Jonas. He was mentioned in a lot of correspondence with Teleborian. Used a hotmail account. Not identified.

Salander glanced at the digital clock on her bedside table. 2.28. She immediately pinged Blomkvist’s I.C.Q. No response.

Blomkvist printed out the 220 pages of the manuscript that were finished. Then he shut off the computer and sat down at Salander’s kitchen table with an editing pencil.

He was pleased with the text. But there was still a gigantic gaping hole. How could he find the remainder of the Section? Eriksson might be right: it might be impossible. He was running out of time.

Salander swore in frustration and pinged Plague. He did not answer either. She looked again at the clock. 2.30.

She sat on the edge of the bed and tried Cortez next and then Eriksson. Saturday. Everybody’s off work. 2.32.

Then she tried to reach Berger. No luck. I told her to go home. Shit. 2.33.

She should be able to send a text message to Blomkvist’s mobile… but it was tapped. She tugged her lip.

Finally in desperation she rang for the nurse.

It was 2.35 when she heard the key in the lock and Nurse Agneta looked in on her.

“Hello. Are you O.K.?”

“Is Dr Jonasson on duty?”

“Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I feel fine. But I need to have a few words with him. If possible.”

“I saw him a little while ago. What’s it about?”

“I just have to talk to him.”

Nurse Agneta frowned. Lisbeth Salander had seldom rung for a nurse if she did not have a severe headache or some other equally serious problem. She never pestered them for anything and had never before asked to speak to a specific doctor. But Nurse Agneta had noticed that Dr Jonasson had spent time with the patient who was under arrest and otherwise seemed withdrawn from the world. It was possible that he had established some sort of rapport.

“I’ll find out if he has time,” Nurse Agneta said gently, and closed the door. And then locked it. It was 2.36, and then the clock clicked over to 2.37.

Salander got up from the edge of the bed and went to the window. She kept an eye on the clock. 2.39. 2.40.

At 2.44 she heard steps in the corridor and the rattle of the Securitas guard’s key ring. Jonasson gave her an inquisitive glance and stopped in his tracks when he saw her desperate look.

“Has something happened?”

“Something is happening right now. Have you got a mobile on you?”

“A what?”

“A mobile. I have to make a call.”

Jonasson looked over his shoulder at the door.

“Anders – I need a mobile. Now!”

When he heard the desperation in her voice he dug into his inside pocket and handed her his Motorola. Salander grabbed it from him. She could not call Blomkvist because he had not given her the number of his Ericsson T10. It had never come up, and he had never supposed that she would be able to call him from her isolation. She hesitated a tenth of a second and punched in Berger’s number. It rang three times before Berger answered.