Berger saw Blomkvist bump into a man as he was heading past the entrance towards the gents’. She frowned without really knowing why. She saw the other man stare at Blomkvist with a surprised expression. She wondered if it was somebody he knew.

Then she saw the man take a step back and drop a bag to the floor. At first she did not know what she was seeing. She sat paralysed as he raised some kind of gun and aimed it at Blomkvist

Blomkvist reacted without stopping to think. He flung out his left hand, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and twisted it up towards the ceiling. For a microsecond the muzzle passed in front of his face.

The burst of fire from the sub-machine gun was deafening in the small room. Mortar and glass from the overhead lights rained down on Blomkvist as Miro Nikolich squeezed off eleven shots. For a moment Blomkvist looked directly into the eyes of his attacker.

Then Nikolich took a step back and yanked the gun towards him. Blomkvist was unprepared and lost his grip on the barrel. He knew at once that he was in mortal danger. Instinctively he threw himself at the attacker instead of crouching down or trying to take cover. Later he realized that if he had ducked or backed away, he would have been shot on the spot. He got a new grip on the barrel of the sub-machine gun and used his entire weight to drive the man against the wall. He heard another six or seven shots go off and tore desperately at the gun to direct the muzzle at the floor.

Berger instinctively took cover when the second series of shots was fired. She stumbled and fell, hitting her head on a chair. As she lay on the floor she looked up and saw that three holes had appeared in the wall just behind where she had been sitting.

In shock she turned her head and saw Blomkvist struggling with the man by the door. He had fallen to his knees and was gripping the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it loose. She saw the attacker struggling to get free. He kept smashing his fist over and over into Blomkvist’s face and temple.

Figuerola braked hard opposite Samir’s Cauldron, flung open the car door and ran across the road towards the restaurant. She had her Sig Sauer in her hand with the safety off when she noticed the car parked right outside the restaurant.

She saw one of the Nikolich brothers behind the wheel and pointed her weapon at his face behind the driver’s door

“Police. Hands up,” she screamed.

Tomi Nikolich held up his hands.

“Get out of the car and lie face down on the pavement,” she roared, fury in her voice. She turned and glanced at Andersson and Modig beside her. “The restaurant,” she said.

Modig was thinking of her children. It was against all police protocol to gallop into a building with her weapon drawn without first having back-up in place and without knowing the exact situation.

Then she heard the sound of more shots from inside.

Blomkvist had his middle finger between the trigger and the trigger guard as Miro Nikolich tried to keep shooting. He heard glass shattering behind him. He felt a searing pain as the attacker squeezed the trigger again and again, crushing his finger. As long as his finger was in place the gun could not be fired. But as Nikolich’s fist pummelled again and again on the side of his head, it suddenly occurred to him that he was too old for this sort of thing.

Have to end it, he thought.

That was his first rational thought since he had become aware of the man with the sub-machine gun.

He clenched his teeth and shoved his finger further into the space behind the trigger.

Then he braced himself, rammed his shoulder into the attacker’s body and forced himself back on to his feet. He let go of the gun with his right hand and raised elbow up to protect his face from the pummelling. Nikolich switched to hitting him in the armpit and ribs. For a second they stood eye to eye again.

The next moment Blomkvist felt the attacker being pulled away from him. He felt one last devastating pain in his finger and became aware of Andersson’s huge form. The police officer literally picked up Nikolich with a firm grip on his neck and slammed his head into the wall by the door. Nikolich collapsed to the ground.

“Get down! This is the police. Stay very still,” he heard Modig yell.

He turned his head and saw her standing with her legs apart and her gun held in both hands as she surveyed the chaos. At last she raised her gun to point it at the ceiling and looked at Blomkvist.

“Are you hurt?” she said.

In a daze Blomkvist looked back at her. He was bleeding from his eyebrows and nose.

“I think I broke a finger,” he said, sitting down on the floor.

Figuerola received back-up from the Södermalm armed response team less than a minute after she forced Tomi Nikolich on to the pavement at gunpoint. She showed her I.D. and left the officers to take charge of the prisoner. Then she ran inside. She stopped in the entrance to take stock of the situation.

Blomkvist and Berger were sitting side by side. His face was bloodied and he seemed to be in shock. She sighed in relief. He was alive. Then she frowned as Berger put her arm around his shoulders. At least her face was bruised.

Modig was squatting down next to them, examining Blomkvist’s hand. Andersson was handcuffing Nikolich, who looked as though he had been hit by a truck. She saw a Swedish Army model M/45 submachine gun on the floor.

Figuerola looked up and saw shocked restaurant staff and terrorstricken patrons, along with shattered china, overturned chairs and tables, and debris from the rounds that had been fired. She smelled cordite. But she was not aware of anyone dead or wounded in the restaurant. Officers from the armed response team began to squeeze into the room with their weapons drawn. She reached out and touched Andersson’s shoulder. He stood up.

“You said that Miro Nikolich was on our wanted list?”

“Correct. G.B.H. About a year ago. A street fight down in Hallunda.”

“O.K. Here’s what we’ll do,” Figuerola said. “I’ll take off as fast as I can with Blomkvist and Berger. You stay here. The story is that you and Modig came here to have dinner and you recognized Nikolich from your time in the gangs unit. When you tried to arrest him he pulled a weapon and started shooting. So you sorted him out.”

Andersson looked completely astonished. “That’s not going to hold up. There are witnesses.”

“The witnesses will say that somebody was fighting and shots were fired. It only has to hold up until tomorrow’s evening papers. The story is that the Nikolich brothers were apprehended by sheer chance because you recognized them.”

Andersson surveyed the shambles all around him.

Figuerola pushed her way through the knot of police officers out on the street and put Blomkvist and Berger in the back seat of her car. She turned to the armed response team leader and spoke in a low voice with him for half a minute. She gestured towards the car in which Blomkvist and Berger were now sitting. The leader looked puzzled but at last he nodded. She drove to Zinkensdamm, parked, and turned around to her passengers.

“How badly are you hurt?”

“I took a few punches. I’ve still got all my teeth, but my middle finger’s hurt.”

“I’ll take you to A. amp; E. at St Göran’s.”

“What happened?” Berger said. “And who are you?”

“I’m sorry,” Blomkvist said. “Erika, this is Inspector Monica Figuerola. She works for Säpo. Monica, this is Erika Berger.”

“I worked that out all by myself,” Figuerola said in a neutral tone. She did not spare Berger a glance.

“Monica and I met during the investigation. She’s my contact at S.I.S.”

“I understand,” Berger said, and she began to shake as suddenly the shock set in.

Figuerola stared hard at Berger.

“What went wrong?” Blomkvist said.

“We misinterpreted the reason for the cocaine,” Figuerola said. “We thought they were setting a trap for you, to create a scandal. Now we know they wanted to kill you. They were going to let the police find the cocaine when they went through your apartment.”