Figuerola promised that she would. They spent a few minutes making arrangements for the weekend. Two of Figuerola's team were going to keep working. She would be taking the weekend off.
Then she clocked out and went to the gym at St Eriksplan, where she spent two hours driving herself hard to catch up on lost training time. She was home by 7.00. She showered, made a simple dinner, and turned on the T.V. to listen to the news. But then she got restless and put on her running kit. She paused at the front door to think. Bloody Blomkvist. She flipped open her mobile and called his Ericsson.
"We found out a certain amount about von Rottinger and Clinton."
"Tell me."
"I will if you come over."
"Sounds like blackmail," Blomkvist said.
"I've just changed into jogging things to work off a little of my surplus energy," Figuerola said. "Should I go now or should I wait for you?"
"Would it be O.K. if I came after 9.00?" "That'll be fine."
At 8.00 on Friday evening Salander had a visit from Dr Jonasson. He sat in the visitor's chair and leaned back.
"Are you going to examine me?" Salander said.
"No. Not tonight."
"O.K."
"We studied all your notes today and we've informed the prosecutor that we're prepared to discharge you."
"I understand."
"They want to take you over to the prison in Goteborg tonight."
"So soon?"
He nodded. " Stockholm is making noises. I said I had a number of final tests to run on you tomorrow and that I couldn't discharge you until Sunday."
"Why's that?"
"Don't know. I was just annoyed they were being so pushy."
Salander actually smiled. Given a few years she would probably be able to make a good anarchist out of Dr Anders Jonasson. In any case he had a penchant for civil disobedience on a private level.
"Fredrik Clinton," Blomkvist said, staring at the ceiling above Figuerola's bed.
"If you light that cigarette I'll stub it out in your navel," Figuerola said.
Blomkvist looked in surprise at the cigarette he had extracted from his jacket.
"Sorry," he said. "Could I borrow your balcony?"
"As long as you brush your teeth afterwards."
He tied a sheet around his waist. She followed him to the kitchen and filled a large glass with cold water. Then she leaned against the door frame by the balcony.
"Clinton first?"
"If he's still alive, he's the link to the past."
"He's dying, he needs a new kidney and spends a lot of his time in dialysis or some other treatment."
"But he's alive. We should contact him and put the question to him directly. Maybe he'll talk."
"No," Figuerola said. "First of all, this is a preliminary investigation and the police are handling it. In that sense, there is no 'we' about it. Second, you're receiving this information in accordance with your agreement with Edklinth, but you've given your word not to take any initiatives that could interfere with the investigation."
Blomkvist smiled at her. "Ouch," he said. "The Security Police are pulling on my leash." He stubbed out his cigarette.
"Mikael, this is not a joke."
Berger drove to the office on Saturday morning still feeling queasy. She had thought that she was beginning to get to grips with the actual process of producing a newspaper and had planned to reward herself with a weekend off - the first since she started at S.M.P. - but the discovery that her most personal and intimate possessions had been stolen, and the Borgsjo report too, made it impossible for her to relax.
During a sleepless night spent mostly in the kitchen with Linder, Berger had expected the "Poison Pen" to strike, disseminating pictures of her that would be deplorably damaging. What an excellent tool the Internet was for freaks. Good grief... a video of me shagging my husband and another man - I'm going to end up on half the websites in the world.
Panic and terror had dogged her through the night.
It took all of Linder's powers of persuasion to send her to bed.
At 8.00 she got up and drove to S.M.P. She could not stay away. If a storm was brewing, then she wanted to face it first before anyone else got wind of it.
But in the half-staffed Saturday newsroom everything was normal. People greeted her as she limped past the central desk. Holm was off today. Fredriksson was the acting news editor.
"Morning. I thought you were taking today off," he said.
"Me too. But I wasn't feeling well yesterday and I've got things I have to do. Anything happening?"
"No, it's pretty slow today. The hottest thing we've got is that the timber industry in Dalarna is reporting a boom, and there was a robbery in Norrkoping in which one person was injured."
"Right. I'll be in the cage for a while."
She sat down, leaned her crutches against the bookshelves, and logged on. First she checked her email. She had several messages, but nothing from Poison Pen. She frowned. It had been two days now since the break-in, and he had not yet acted on what had to be a treasure trove of opportunities. Why not? Maybe he's going to change tactics. Blackmail? Maybe he just wants to keep me guessing.
She had nothing specific to work on, so she clicked on the strategy document she was writing for S.M.P. She stared at the screen for fifteen minutes without seeing the words.
She tried to call Greger, but with no success. She did not even know if his mobile worked in other countries. Of course she could have tracked him down with a bit of effort, but she felt lazy to the core. Wrong, she felt helpless and paralysed.
She tried to call Blomkvist to tell him that the Borgsjo folder had been stolen, but he did not answer.
By 10.00 she had accomplished nothing and decided to go home. She was just reaching out to shut down her computer when her I.C.Q. account pinged. She looked in astonishment at the icon bar. She knew what I.C.Q. was but she seldom chatted, and she had not used the program since starting at S.M.P.
She clicked hesitantly on Answer.
- Hello, Erika.
- Hello. Who are you?
- Private business. Are you alone?
A trick? Poison Pen?
- Yeah. Who are you?
- We met at the home of Mikael Blomkvist, Sandhamn, when he returned.
Berger stared at the screen. It took her a few seconds to make the connection. Lisbeth Salander. Impossible.
- Are you there?
- Yes.
- No names. You know who am I?
- How do I know you're not an imposter?
- I know how Mikael's got neck scar.
Berger swallowed. Only four people in the world knew how he had come by that scar. Salander was one of them.
- Okay. But how could you chat with me?
- I am good with computers.
Salander is a devil with computers. But how the hell is she managing to communicate from Sahlgrenska, where she's been isolated since April?
- Okay.
- Can I trust you?
- What do you mean?
- This conversation is not to be screened.
She doesn't want the police to know she has access to the Net. Of course not. Which is why she's chatting with the editor-in-chief of one of the biggest newspapers in Sweden.
- Agreed. What do you want?
- Pay.
- What do you mean?
- Millennium has supported me.
- We have done our job.
- Other papers did.
- You're not guilty of what they accuse you.
- You have a stalker following you the steps.
Berger's heart beat furiously.
- What do you know?
- Stolen video. Someone got into your home.
- Yes. Can you help?
Berger could not believe she was asking this question. It was absurd. Salander was in rehabilitation at Sahlgrenska and was up to her neck in her own problems. She was the most unlikely person Berger could turn to with any hope of getting help.
- Don't know. Let me try.
- How?
- Question: Do you believe that bastard's from S.M.P.?
- I can prove it.
- Why do you think so?
Berger thought for while before she replied.
- It's a feeling. It all started when I came to work here. Other people in the newspaper have received nasty emails from the poison pen that appear to come from me.
- What is the poison pen?
- It's the name that I've given the bastard.
- Okay. Why poison pen has chosen you and not somebody else?
- I don't know.
- Is there anything that makes you believe it's something personal?
- What do you mean?
- How many employees are in the S.M.P.?
- Over two hundred thirty, including editorial.
- How many know in person?
- I don't know them very well. Over the years I have known several journalists and employees in different situations.
- Someone you've ever fought?
- No. Not specifically.
- Someone who want revenge?
- Revenge? What?
- Revenge is a good reason.
Berger stared at the screen as she tried to work out what Salander was getting at.
- Are you there?
- Yes, why do you ask me about the revenge?
- I read the list of Rosin with all incidents that relate to the poison pen.
Why am I not surprised?
- And?
- I don't think it's the work of a stalker.
- What do you mean?
- A stalker is a person motivated by a sexual obsession. It seems to me in this case someone is imitating a stalker. Fuck the ass with a screwdriver... Sorry for mentioning it.
- Yes?
- I have seen real stalkers. They are much more perverted, vulgar and grotesque. They express love and hate at the same time. There is something that does not fit in all this.
- Is it not vulgar enough?
- No. The email to Eva Carlsson doesn't go at all with the profile of a stalker. It's just someone who want to bug you.
- I understand. I had not been raised that way.
- It's not stalker. It is addressed to you in person.
- Agreed. What do you propose?
- Do you trust me?
- Maybe.
- I need to access the internal network of S.M.P.
- Stop, stop.
- Now. Soon I will move, I can't have access to the Internet then.
Berger hesitated for ten seconds. Open up S.M.P. to... what? A complete loony? Salander might be innocent of murder, but she was definitely not normal.
But what did she have to lose?
- How?
- I need you to install a program.
- We have firewalls.
- You must help. Start Internet browser.
- Done.
- Explorer?
- Yes.
- I'm going to write an address. Copy and paste it in the Explorer.
- Done.
- Now you see a list of programs. Click Asphyxia Server and download.
Berger followed the instruction.
- Done.
- Start Asphyxia. Click on install and click Explorer.
It took three minutes.
- Ready. Perfect. Now you have to restart your computer. Loosing touch for a while.
- Okay.
- When we return, I will transfer your hard drive to an Internet server.
- Okay.
- Restart. We will be out of touch for a while.
Berger stared in fascination at the screen as her computer slowly rebooted. She wondered whether she was mad. Then her I.C.Q. pinged.
- Hello again.
- Hello.
- It would be faster this way: start browser than copy and paste the address I'll send.
- Okay.
- Now you will get a question. Click Start.
- Agreed.
- Now you need to give name to the hard drive image. Let's name it SMP-2.
- Okay.
- Go and have a coffee. This will take a while.
Figuerola woke at 8.00 on Saturday morning, about two hours later than usual. She sat up in bed and looked at the man beside her. He was snoring. Well, nobody's perfect.
She wondered where this affair with Blomkvist was going to lead. He was obviously not the faithful type, so no point in looking forward to a long-term relationship. She knew that much from his biography. Anyway, she was not so sure she wanted a stable relationship herself - with a partner and a mortgage and kids. After a dozen failed relationships since her teens, she was tending towards the theory that stability was overrated. Her longest had been with a colleague in Uppsala - they had shared an apartment for two years.
But she was not someone who went in for one-night stands, although she did think that sex was an underrated therapy for just about all ailments. And sex with Blomkvist, out of shape as he was, was just fine. More than just fine, actually. Plus, he was a good person. He made her want more.
A summer romance? A love affair? Was she in love?
She went to the bathroom and washed her face and brushed her teeth. Then she put on her shorts and a thin jacket and quietly left the apartment. She stretched and went on a 45-minute run out past Rålambshov hospital and around Fredhall and back via Smedsudden. She was home by 9.00 and discovered Blomkvist still asleep. She bent down and bit him on the ear. He opened his eyes in bewilderment.
"Good morning, darling. I need somebody to scrub my back."
He looked at her and mumbled something.
"What did you say?"
"You don't need to take a shower. You're soaked to the skin already."
