Despite the rich variety of Amazon legends from ancient Greece, South America, Africa and elsewhere, there is only one historically documented example of female warriors. This is the women’s army that existed among the Fon of Dahomey in West Africa, now Benin.

These female warriors have never been mentioned in the published military histories; no romanticized films have been made about them, and today they exist as no more than footnotes to history. Only one scholarly work has been written about these women, Amazons of Black Sparta by Stanley B. Alpern (C. Hurst amp; Co., London, 1998), and yet they made up a force that was the equal of every contemporary body of male elite soldiers from among the colonial powers.

It is not clear exactly when Fon’s female army was founded, but some sources date it to the 1600s. It was originally a royal guard, but it developed into a military collective of six thousand soldiers with a semi-divine status. They were not merely window-dressing. For almost two hundred years they constituted the vanguard of the Fon against European colonizers. They were feared by the French forces, who lost several battles against them. This army of women was not defeated until 1892, when France sent troops with artillery, the Foreign Legion, a marine infantry regiment and cavalry.

It is not known how many of these female warriors fell in battle. For many years survivors continued to wage guerrilla warfare, and veterans of the army were interviewed and photographed as late as the 1940s.

Two weeks before the trial of Lisbeth Salander began, Malm finished the layout of the 352-page book tersely entitled The Section. The cover was blue with yellow type. Malm had positioned seven postage-stamp-sized black-and-white images of Swedish Prime Ministers along the bottom. Over the top of them hovered a photograph of Zalachenko. He had used Zalachenko’s passport photograph as an illustration, increasing the contrast so that only the darkest areas stood out like a shadow across the whole cover. It was not a particularly sophisticated design, but it was effective. Blomkvist, Cortez and Eriksson were named as the authors.

It was 5.00 in the morning and he had been working all night. He felt slightly sick and had badly wanted to go home and sleep. Eriksson had sat up with him doing final corrections page by page as Malm O.K.’d them and printed them out. By now she was asleep on the sofa.

Malm put the entire text plus illustrations into a folder. He started up the Toast program and burned two C.D.s. One he put in the safe. The other was collected by a sleepy Blomkvist just before 7.00.

“Go and get some rest,” Blomkvist said.

“I’m on my way.”

They left Eriksson asleep and turned on the door alarm. Cortez would be in at 8.00 to take over.

Blomkvist walked to Lundagatan, where he again borrowed Salander’s abandoned Honda without permission. He drove to Hallvigs Reklam, the printers near the railway tracks in Morgongåva, west of Uppsala. This was a job he would not entrust to the post.

He drove slowly, refusing to acknowledge the stress he felt, and then waited until the printers had checked that they could read the C.D. He made sure that the book would indeed be ready to distribute on the first day of the trial. The problem was not the printing but the binding, which could take time. But Jan Köbin, Hallvigs’ manager, promised to deliver at least five hundred copies of the first printing of ten thousand by that day. The book would be a trade paperback.

Finally, Blomkvist made sure that everyone understood the need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had printed Blomkvist’s book about Hans-Erik Wennerström under very similar circumstances. They knew that books from this peculiar publisher Millennium always promised something extra.

Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry. He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his apartment to pack a change of clothes and a wash bag. He drove on to Stavsnäs wharf in Värmdö, where he parked the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn.

It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air and drank a Ramlösa. As always when a job was finished and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt empty.

He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water pipes and changing the bedclothes up in the sleeping loft. He went to the grocery and bought everything he would need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and not thinking about anything in particular.

Just before 5.00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and met Figuerola.

“I thought you said you couldn’t take time off,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“That’s what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I’ve been working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I’m starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to recharge my batteries.”

“In Sandhamn?”

“I didn’t tell him where I was going,” she said with a smile.

Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist’s 25-square-metre cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom and the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as they watched the parade of sailing boats on their way to or from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine.

“It’s a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?” Figuerola said.

“Just the important ones.”

“Has Erika Berger been here?”

“Many times.”

“And Salander?”

“She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerström. And we spent Christmas here two years ago.”

“So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?”

“Erika is my best friend. We’ve been friends for twenty-five years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She’s certainly unique, and she the most antisocial person I’ve ever known. You could say that she made a big impression on me when we first met. I like her. She’s a friend.”

“You don’t feel sorry for her?”

“No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that’s happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy and solidarity with her.”

“But you aren’t in love either with her or with Berger?”

He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a motorboat on the way to the marina.

“If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I’m in love with several people,” Blomkvist said.

“And now with me?”

Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him.

“Does it bother you?”

“That you’ve brought other women here? No. But it does bother me that I don’t really know what’s happening between us. And I don’t think I can have a relationship with a man who screws around whenever he feels like it…”

“I’m not going to apologize for the way I’ve led my life.”

“And I guess that in some way I’m falling for you because you are who you are. It’s easy to sleep with you because there’s no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn’t happen very often, and I hadn’t planned it. And now we’ve got to the stage where I’ve become just another one of the girls you invite out here.”