Wennerstrom's death came as no surprise to Salander. She suspected, with good reason, that his demise had to do with the fact that he no longer had access to the money in a certain bank in the Cayman Islands, which he may have needed to pay off certain debts in Colombia.
If anyone had asked for Salander's help in tracking Wennerstrom, she could have told them almost on a daily basis where he was. Via the Internet she had followed his flight through a dozen countries and remarked a growing desperation in his emails. Not even Blomkvist would have thought that the fugitive ex-billionaire would be stupid enough to take along the computer that had been so thoroughly penetrated.
After six months Salander grew tired of tracking Wennerstrom. The question that remained to be answered was how far her own involvement should reach. Wennerstrom was without a doubt an Olympic-class creep, but he was not her personal enemy, and she had no interest in involving herself against him. She could tip off Blomkvist, but he would probably just publish a story. She could tip off the police, but there was quite a chance that Wennerstrom would be forewarned and again disappear. Besides, on principle, she did not talk to the police.
But there were other debts that had to be paid. She thought about the once-pregnant waitress whose head had been shoved underwater in her own bath.
Four days before Wennerstrom's body was found, she made up her mind. She switched on her mobile and called a lawyer in Miami, who seemed to be one of the people Wennerstrom was making a big effort to hide from. She talked to a secretary and asked her to pass on a cryptic message. The name Wennerstrom and an address in Marbella. That was all.
She turned off the TV news halfway through a dramatic report about Wennerstrom's demise. She put on some coffee and fixed herself a liver pate and cucumber sandwich.
Berger and Malm were taking care of the annual Christmas arrangements while Blomkvist sat in Erika's chair, drinking glogg and looking on. All the staff and many of the regular freelancers would receive a Christmas gift - this year a shoulder bag with the new Millennium publishing house logo. After wrapping the presents, they sat down to write and stamp about 200 cards to send to printing companies, photographers, and media colleagues.
Blomkvist tried for the longest time to withstand the temptation but finally he couldn't resist. He picked up the very last card and wrote: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Thanks for your splendid efforts during the past year.
He signed his name and addressed the card to Janne Dahlman, c/o the editorial offices of Monopoly Financial Magazine.
When Blomkvist got home that evening there was a slip notifying him of a postal package. He went to pick it up the next morning, opening it when he got to the office. The package contained a mosquito-repellent stick and a bottle of Reimersholms aquavit. The card read: If you don't have other plans, I'll be docked at Arholma on Midsummer Eve. It was signed Robert Lindberg.
Traditionally the Millennium offices were closed the week before Christmas and through the New Year's holiday. This year it did not work out that way. The strain on the small staff had been enormous, and journalists were still calling from all over the world on a daily basis. It was the day before Christmas Eve when Blomkvist, almost by chance, happened to read an article in the Financial Times summing up the findings of the international banking commission that had been established in all haste to scrutinise the collapse of the Wennerstrom empire. The article said that the commission was working on the hypothesis that Wennerstrom had probably been tipped off at the last minute about the impending disclosures.
His account at Bank of Kroenenfeld in the Cayman Islands, containing $260 million - approximately 2.5 billion Swedish kronor - had been emptied the day before Millennium published its expose.
The money had been spread over a number of accounts, and only Wennerstrom personally could make withdrawals. He did not have to be present at the bank; it was enough for him to present a series of clearing codes in order to transfer the money to any bank in the world. The money had been transferred to Switzerland, where a female associate had converted the funds into anonymous private bonds. All the clearing codes were in order.
Europol had launched a search for the woman who had used a stolen British passport in the name of Monica Sholes and who was said to have lived a life of luxury at one of Zürich's most expensive hotels. A relatively clear picture, considering that it came from a surveillance camera, showed a short woman with a blonde page-boy, wide lips, and prominent breasts wearing fashionable designer clothes and gold jewellery.
Blomkvist studied the picture, giving it first a quick glance and then looking at it with increasing suspicion. After several seconds he rummaged in his desk for a magnifying glass and tried to make out the details of the facial features in the newspaper's screened image.
At last he put down the paper and sat there, speechless, for several minutes. Then he started laughing so hysterically that Malm stuck his head round the door to find out what was going on.
On the morning of Christmas Eve Blomkvist went out to arsta to see his ex-wife and his daughter, Pernilla, and exchange gifts. Pernilla got the computer she wanted, which Blomkvist and Monica had bought together. Blomkvist got a tie from Monica and a detective novel by ake Edwardson from his daughter. Unlike the previous Christmas, they were in high spirits because of the media drama that had been playing out around Millennium.
They had lunch together. Blomkvist stole a sidelong glance at Pernilla. He had not seen his daughter since she turned up to visit him in Hedestad. He realised that he had failed to discuss her mania for that sect in Skelleftea with her mother. He could not tell them that it was his daughter's obviously profound knowledge of the Bible that had set him on the right track regarding Harriet Vanger's disappearance. He had not talked to his daughter since then.
He was not a good father.
He kissed his daughter goodbye after the lunch and met Salander at Slussen. They went out to Sandhamn. They had not seen much of each other since the Millennium bomb exploded. They arrived late on Christmas Eve and stayed for the holidays.
Blomkvist was entertaining company, as always, but Salander had an uneasy feeling that he was looking at her with an especially odd expression when she paid back the loan with a cheque for 120,000 kronor.
They took a walk to Trovill and back (which Salander considered a waste of time), had Christmas dinner at the inn, and went back to the cabin where they lit a fire in the woodstove, put on an Elvis CD, and devoted themselves to some plain old sex. When Salander from time to time came up for air, she tried to analyse her feelings.
She had no problem with Blomkvist as a lover. There was obviously a physical attraction. And he never tried to tutor her.
Her problem was that she could not interpret her own feelings for him. Not since before reaching puberty had she lowered her guard to let another person get so close as she had with him. To be quite honest, he had a trying ability to penetrate her defences and to get her to talk about personal matters and private feelings. Even though she had enough sense to ignore most of his questions, she talked about herself in a way that she would never, even under threat of death, have imagined doing with any other person. It frightened her and made her feel naked and vulnerable to his will.
At the same time - when she looked down at his slumbering form and listened to him snoring - she felt that she had never before in her life had such a trust in another human being. She knew with absolute certainty that Mikael would never use what he knew about her to hurt her. It was not in his nature.
The only thing they never discussed was their relationship to each other. She did not dare, and Blomkvist never broached the subject.
At some point on the morning of the second day she came to a terrifying realisation. She had no idea how it had happened or how she was supposed to cope with it. She was in love for the first time in her life.
That he was almost twice her age did not bother her. Nor did the fact that at the moment he was one of the most newsworthy people in Sweden, and his picture was even on the cover of Newsweek - that was all just soap opera. But Blomkvist was no erotic fantasy or daydream. It would have to come to an end. It could not possibly work out. What did he need her for? Maybe she was just a way to pass the time while he waited for someone whose life was not a fucking rat hole.
What she had realised was that love was that moment when your heart was about to burst.
When Blomkvist woke up late that morning, she had made coffee and been out to buy breakfast rolls. He joined her at the table and noticed at once that something in her attitude had changed - she was a bit more reserved. When he asked her if anything was wrong, she gave him a neutral, uncomprehending look.
On the first day between Christmas and New Year's, Blomkvist took the train up to Hedestad. He was wearing his warmest clothes and his proper winter shoes when Frode met him at the station and quietly congratulated him on the media success. It was the first time since August that he had visited Hedestad, and it was almost exactly one year ago since he had visited it for the first time. They chatted politely, but there was also a great deal that had gone unsaid between them, and Blomkvist felt uncomfortable.
Everything had been prepared, and the business with Frode took only a few minutes. Frode offered to deposit the money in a convenient foreign bank account, but Blomkvist insisted that it should be paid like a normal, legitimate fee to his company.
"I can't afford any other type of payment," he said curtly when Frode persisted.
The purpose of his visit was not solely financial. Blomkvist had left clothes, books, and a number of his own things in the cottage when he and Salander had abandoned Hedeby in great haste.
Vanger was still frail after his illness, but he was at home. He was being looked after by a private nurse, who refused to allow him to take long walks, or walk up stairs, or discuss anything that might upset him. During the holidays he had also come down with a slight cold and was ordered to bed.
"Besides which, she's expensive," Vanger complained.
Blomkvist knew that the old man could afford any such expense - considering how many kronor he had written off his taxes all his life. Vanger gave him a sullen look until he started laughing.
"What the hell, you were worth every krona. I knew you would be."
"To tell you the truth, I never thought I'd solve it."
"I have no intention of thanking you," Vanger said.
"I didn't expect you would. I'm just here to tell you that I consider the job done."
Vanger curled his lips. "You haven't finished the job," he said.
"I know that."
"You haven't written the Vanger family chronicle, which was agreed."
"I know that. I'm not going to write it. In fact, I can't write it. I can't write about the Vanger family and leave out the most central event of the past decades. How could I write a chapter about Martin's period as CEO and pretend that I don't know what's in his basement? I also can't write the story without destroying Harriet's life all over again."
"I understand your dilemma, and I'm grateful for the decision that you've made."
"Congratulations. You've managed to corrupt me. I'm going to destroy all my notes and the tape recordings I've made of our conversations."
"I don't think that you've been corrupted," Vanger said.
"That's what it feels like. And I think that's what it is."
"You had to choose between your role as a journalist and your role as a human being. I could never have bought your silence. And I'm quite certain that you would have exposed us if Harriet had turned out in some way to have been implicated, or if you thought I was a cretin."
Blomkvist did not reply.
"We've told Cecilia the whole story. Frode and I will soon be gone, and Harriet is going to need support from someone in the family. Cecilia will play an active role on the board. She and Harriet will be in charge of the firm from now on."
"How did she take it?"
"She was very shaken. She went abroad for a while. I was even afraid she wouldn't come back."
"But she did."
"Martin was one of the few people in our family that Cecilia always got along with. It was very hard for her to find out the truth about him. She also knows now what you did for the family."
Blomkvist shrugged.
"So thank you, Mikael," Vanger said.
"Besides, I couldn't write the story because I've had it up to here with the Vanger family. But tell me, how does it feel to be CEO again?"
"It's only temporary, but... I wish I were younger. I'm only working three hours a day. All the meetings are held in this room, and Dirch has stepped in again as my enforcer if anyone acts up."
"The junior executives must be quaking in their boots. It took me a while to realise that Dirch wasn't just an old sweetie of a financial adviser but also someone who solves problems for you."
"Exactly. But all decisions are made with Harriet, and she's the one who's doing the legwork in the office."
"How are things going for her?"
"She inherited both her brother's and her mother's shares. She controls about 33 percent of the corporation."
"Is that enough?"
"I don't know. Birger is trying to trip her up. Alexander has seen that he has a chance to make an impact and has allied himself with Birger. My brother Harald has cancer and won't live much longer. He was the only remaining person with large shareholdings of 7 percent, which his children will inherit. Cecilia and Anita will be on Harriet's side."
"Then together you'll control, what, 45 percent."
"That kind of voting cartel has never existed within the family before. Plenty of shareholders with one and two percent will vote against us. Harriet is going to succeed me as CEO in February."
