Late in the evening Frode came to see him and give him the details about Henrik Vanger's condition.
"He's alive, but he's not doing well. He had a serious heart attack, and he's also suffering from an infection."
"Have you seen him?"
"No. He's in intensive care. Martin and Birger are sitting with him."
"What are his chances?"
Frode waved a hand back and forth.
"He survived the attack, and that's a good sign. Henrik is in excellent condition, but he's old. We'll just have to wait."
They sat in silence, deep in thought. Blomkvist made coffee. Frode looked wretchedly unhappy.
"I need to ask you about what's going to happen now," Blomkvist said.
Frode looked up.
"The conditions of your employment don't change. They're stipulated in a contract that runs until the end of this year, whether Henrik lives or dies. You don't have to worry."
"No, that's not what I meant. I'm wondering who I report to in his absence."
Frode sighed.
"Mikael, you know as well as I do that this whole story about Harriet is just a pastime for Henrik."
"Don't say that, Dirch."
"What do you mean?"
"I've found new evidence," Blomkvist said. "I told Henrik about some of it yesterday. I'm very much afraid that it may have helped to bring on his heart attack."
Frode looked at him with a strange expression.
"You're joking, you must be..."
Blomkvist shook his head.
"Over the past few days I've found significant material about Harriet's disappearance. What I'm worried about is that we never discussed who I should report to if Henrik is no longer here."
"You report to me."
"OK. I have to go on with this. Can I put you in the picture right now?"
Blomkvist described what he had found as concisely as possible, and he showed Frode the series of pictures from Jarnvagsgatan. Then he explained how his own daughter had unlocked the mystery of the names in the date book. Finally, he proposed the connection, as he had for Vanger the day before, with the murder of Rebecka Jacobsson in 1949, R.J.
The only thing he kept to himself was Cecilia Vanger's face in Harriet's window. He had to talk to her before he put her in a position where she might be suspected of something.
Frode's brow was creased with concern.
"You really think that the murder of Rebecka has something to do with Harriet's disappearance?"
"It seems unlikely, I agree, but the fact remains that Harriet wrote the initials R.J. in her date book next to the reference to the Old Testament law about burnt offerings. Rebecka Jacobsson was burned to death. One connection with the Vanger family is inescapable - she worked for the corporation."
"But what is the connection with Harriet?"
"I don't know yet. But I want to find out. I will tell you everything I would have told Henrik. You have to make the decisions for him."
"Perhaps we ought to inform the police."
"No. At least not without Henrik's blessing. The statute of limitations has long since run out in the case of Rebecka, and the police investigation was closed. They're not going to reopen an investigation fifty-four years later."
"All right. What are you going to do?"
Blomkvist paced a lap around the kitchen.
"First, I want to follow up the photograph lead. If we could see what it was that Harriet saw... it might be the key. I need a car to go to Norsjo and follow that lead, wherever it takes me. And also, I want to research each of the Leviticus verses. We have one connection to one murder. We have four verses, possibly four other clues. To do this... I need some help."
"What kind of help?"
"I really need a research assistant with the patience to go through old newspaper archives to find 'Magda' and 'Sara' and the other names. If I'm right in thinking that Rebecka wasn't the only victim."
"You mean you want to let someone else in on..."
"There's a lot of work that has to be done and in a hurry. If I were a police officer involved in an active investigation, I could divide up the hours and resources and get people to dig for me. I need a professional who knows archive work and who can be trusted."
"I understand... Actually I believe I know of an expert researcher," said Frode, and before he could stop himself, he added, "She was the one who did the background investigation on you."
"Who did what?" Blomkvist said.
"I was thinking out loud," Frode said. "It's nothing." I'm getting old, he thought.
"You had someone do an investigation on me?"
"It's nothing dramatic, Mikael. We wanted to hire you, and we just did a check on what sort of person you were."
"So that's why Henrik always seems to know exactly where he has me. How thorough was this investigation?"
"It was quite thorough."
"Did it look into Millennium's problems?"
Frode shrugged. "It had a bearing."
Blomkvist lit a cigarette. It was his fifth of the day.
"A written report?"
"Mikael, it's nothing to get worked up about."
"I want to read the report," he said.
"Oh come on, there's nothing out of the ordinary about this. We wanted to check up on you before we hired you."
"I want to read the report," Mikael repeated.
"I couldn't authorise that."
"Really? Then here's what I say to you: either I have that report in my hands within the hour, or I quit. I'll take the evening train back to Stockholm. Where is the report?"
The two men eyed each other for several seconds. Then Frode sighed and looked away.
"In my office, at home."
Frode had put up a terrible fuss. It was not until 6:00 that evening that Blomkvist had Lisbeth Salander's report in his hand. It was almost eighty pages long, plus dozens of photocopied articles, certificates, and other records of the details of his life and career.
It was a strange experience to read about himself in what was part biography and part intelligence report. He was increasingly astonished at how detailed the report was. Salander had dug up facts that he thought had been long buried in the compost of history. She had dug up his youthful relationship with a woman who had been a flaming Syndicalist and who was now a politician. Who in the world had she talked to? She had found his rock band Bootstrap, which surely no-one today would remember. She had scrutinised his finances down to the last ore. How the hell had she done it?
As a journalist, Blomkvist had spent many years hunting down information about people, and he could judge the quality of the work from a purely professional standpoint. There was no doubt that this Salander was one hell of an investigator. He doubted that even he could have produced a comparable report on any individual completely unknown to him.
It also dawned on him that there had never been any reason for him and Berger to keep their distance in Vanger's presence; he already knew of their long-standing relationship. The report came up with a disturbingly precise appraisal of Millennium's financial position; Vanger knew just how shaky things were when he first contacted Berger. What sort of game was he playing?
The Wennerstrom affair was merely summarised, but whoever wrote the report had obviously been a spectator in court during part of the trial. The report questioned Blomkvist's refusal to comment during the trial. Smart woman.
The next second Mikael straightened up, hardly able to believe his eyes. Salander had written a brief passage giving her assessment of what would happen after the trial. She had reproduced virtually word for word the press release that he and Berger had submitted after he resigned as publisher of Millennium.
But Salander had used his original wording. He glanced again at the cover of the report. It was dated three days before Blomkvist was sentenced. That was impossible. The press release existed then in only one place in the whole world. In Blomkvist's computer. In his iBook, not on his computer at the office. The text was never printed out. Not even Berger had a copy, although they had talked about the subject.
Blomkvist put down Salander's report. He put on his jacket and went out into the night, which was very bright one week before Midsummer. He walked along the shore of the sound, past Cecilia Vanger's property and the luxurious motorboat below Martin Vanger's villa. He walked slowly, pondering as he went. Finally he sat on a rock and looked at the flashing buoy lights in Hedestad Bay. There was only one conclusion.
"You've been in my computer, Froken Salander," he said aloud. "You're a fucking hacker."
CHAPTER 18
Wednesday, June 18
Salander awoke with a start from a dreamless slumber. She felt faintly sick. She did not have to turn her head to know that Mimmi had left already for work, but her scent still lingered in the stuffy air of the bedroom. Salander had drunk too many beers the night before with the Evil Fingers at the Mill. Mimmi had turned up not long before closing time and come home with her and into bed.
Salander - unlike Mimmi - had never thought of herself as a lesbian. She had never brooded over whether she was straight, gay, or even bisexual. She did not give a damn about labels, did not see that it was anyone else's business whom she spent her nights with. If she had to choose, she preferred guys - and they were in the lead, statistically speaking. The only problem was finding a guy who was not a jerk and one who was also good in bed; Mimmi was a sweet compromise, and she turned Salander on. They had met in a beer tent at the Pride Festival a year ago, and Mimmi was the only person that Salander had introduced to the Evil Fingers. But it was still just a casual affair for both of them. It was nice lying close to Mimmi's warm, soft body, and Salander did not mind waking up with her and their having breakfast together.
Her clock said it was 9:30, and she was wondering what could have woken her when the doorbell rang again. She sat up in surprise. No-one had ever rung her doorbell at this hour. Very few people rang her doorbell at all. She wrapped a sheet around her and walked unsteadily to the hall to open the door. She stared straight into the eyes of Mikael Blomkvist, felt panic race through her body, and took a step back.
"Good morning, Froken Salander," he greeted her cheerfully. "It was a late night, I see. Can I come in?"
Without waiting for an answer, he walked in, closing the door behind him. He regarded with curiosity the pile of clothes on the hall floor and the rampart of bags filled with newspapers; then he peered through the bedroom door while Salander's world started spinning in the wrong direction. How? What? Who? Blomkvist looked at her bewilderment with amusement.
"I assumed that you would not have had breakfast yet, so I brought some filled bagels with me. I got one with roast beef, one with turkey and Dijon mustard, and one vegetarian with avocado, not knowing your preference." He marched into her kitchen and started rinsing her coffeemaker. "Where do you keep coffee?" he said. Salander stood in the hall as if frozen until she heard the water running out of the tap. She took three quick strides.
"Stop! Stop at once!" She realised that she was shouting and lowered her voice. "Damn it all, you can't come barging in here as if you owned the place. We don't even know each other."
Blomkvist paused, holding a jug and turned to look at her.
"Wrong! You know me better than almost anyone else does. Isn't that so?"
He turned his back on her and poured the water into the machine. Then he started opening her cupboards in search of coffee. "Speaking of which, I know how you do it. I know your secrets."
Salander shut her eyes, wishing that the floor would stop pitching under her feet. She was in a state of mental paralysis. She was hung over. This situation was unreal, and her brain was refusing to function. Never had she met one of her subjects face to face. He knows where I live! He was standing in her kitchen. This was impossible. It was outrageous. He knows who I am!
She felt the sheet slipping, and she pulled it tighter around her. He said something, but at first she didn't understand him. "We have to talk," he said again. "But I think you'd better take a shower first."
She tried to speak sensibly. "You listen to me - if you're thinking of making trouble, I'm not the one you should be talking to. I was just doing a job. You should talk to my boss."
He held up his hands. A universal sign of peace, or I have no weapon.
"I've already talked to Armansky. By the way, he wants you to ring him - you didn't answer his call last night."
She did not sense any threat, but she still stepped back a pace when he came closer, took her arm and escorted her to the bathroom door. She disliked having anyone touch her without her leave.
"I don't want to make trouble," he said. "But I'm quite anxious to talk to you. After you're awake, that is. The coffee will be ready by the time you put on some clothes. First, a shower. Vamoose!"
Passively she obeyed. Lisbeth Salander is never passive, she thought.
She leaned against the bathroom door and struggled to collect her thoughts. She was more shaken than she would have thought possible. Gradually she realised that a shower was not only good advice but a necessity after the tumult of the night. When she was done, she slipped into her bedroom and put on jeans, and a T-shirt with the slogan ARMAGEDDON WAS YESTERDAY - TODAY WE HAVE A SERIOUS PROBLEM.
After pausing for a second, she searched through her leather jacket that was slung over a chair. She took the taser out of the pocket, checked to see that it was loaded, and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. The smell of coffee was spreading through the apartment. She took a deep breath and went back to the kitchen.
