Wadensjöö sounded doubtful. “Evert, you’re asking us to run an operation against an influential magazine and the editor-in-chief of S.M.P. That’s just about the riskiest thing we could do.”

“Understand this: you have no choice. Either you roll up your sleeves or it’s time for somebody else to take over here.”

The challenge hung like a cloud over the table.

“I think I can handle Millennium,” Sandberg said at last. “But none of this solves the basic problem. What do we do with Zalachenko? If he talks, anything else we pull off is useless.”

“I know. That’s my part of the operation,” Gullberg said. “I think I have an argument that will persuade Zalachenko to keep his mouth shut. But it’s going to take some preparation. I’m leaving for Göteborg later this afternoon.”

He paused and looked around the room. Then he fixed his eyes on Wadensjöö.

“ Clinton will make the operational decisions while I’m gone,” he said.

Not until Monday evening did Dr Endrin decide, in consultation with her colleague Dr Jonasson, that Salander’s condition was stable enough for her to have visitors. First, two police inspectors were given fifteen minutes to ask her questions. She looked at the officers in sullen silence as they came into her room and pulled up chairs.

“Hello. My name is Marcus Erlander, Criminal Inspector. I work in the Violent Crimes Division here in Göteborg. This is my colleague Inspector Modig from the Stockholm police.”

Salander said nothing. Her expression did not change. She recognized Modig as one of the officers in Bublanski’s team. Erlander gave her a cool smile.

“I’ve been told that you don’t generally communicate much with the authorities. Let me put it on record that you do not have to say anything at all. But I would be grateful if you would listen to what we have to say. We have a number of things to discuss with you, but we don’t have time to go into them all today. There’ll be opportunities later.”

Salander still said nothing.

“First of all, I’d like to let you know that your friend Mikael Blomkvist has told us that a lawyer by the name of Annika Giannini is willing to represent you, and that she knows about the case. He says that he already mentioned her name to you in connection with something else. I need you to confirm that this would be your intention. I’d also like to know if you want Giannini to come here to Göteborg, the better to represent you.”

Annika Giannini. Blomkvist’s sister. He had mentioned her in an email. Salander had not thought about the fact that she would need a lawyer.

“I’m sorry, but I have to insist that you answer the question. A yes or no will be fine. If you say yes, the prosecutor here in Göteborg will contact Advokat Giannini. If you say no, the court will appoint a defence lawyer on your behalf. Which do you prefer?”

Salander considered the choice. She assumed that she really would need a lawyer, but having Kalle Bastard Blomkvist’s sister working for her was hard to stomach. On the other hand, some unknown lawyer appointed by the court would probably be worse. She rasped out a single word:

“Giannini.”

“Good. Thank you. Now I have a question for you. You don’t have to say anything before your lawyer gets here, but this question does not, as far as I can see, affect you or your welfare. The police are looking for a German citizen by the name of Ronald Niedermann, wanted for the murder of a policeman.”

Salander frowned. She had no clue as to what had happened after she had swung the axe at Zalachenko’s head.

“As far as the Göteborg police are concerned, they are anxious to arrest him as soon as possible. My colleague here would like to question him also in connection with the three recent murders in Stockholm. You should know that you are no longer a suspect in those cases. So we are asking for your help. Do you have any idea… can you give us any help at all in finding this man?”

Salander flicked her eyes suspiciously from Erlander to Modig and back.

They don’t know that he’s my brother.

Then she considered whether she wanted Niedermann caught or not. Most of all she wanted to take him to a hole in the ground in Gosseberga and bury him. Finally she shrugged. Which she should not have done, because pain flew through her left shoulder.

“What day is it today?” she said.

“Monday.”

She thought about that. “The first time I heard the name Ronald Niedermann was last Thursday. I tracked him to Gosseberga. I have no idea where he is or where he might go, but he’ll try to get out of the country as soon as he can.”

“Why would he flee abroad?”

Salander thought about it. “Because while Niedermann was out digging a grave for me, Zalachenko told me that things were getting too hot and that it had already been decided that Niedermann should leave the country for a while.”

Salander had not exchanged this many words with a police officer since she was twelve.

“Zalachenko… so that’s your father?”

Well, at least they had worked that one out. Probably thanks to Kalle Bastard Blomkvist.

“I have to tell you that your father has made a formal accusation to the police stating that you tried to murder him. The case is now at the prosecutor’s office, and he has to decide whether to bring charges. But you have already been placed under arrest on a charge of grievous bodily harm, for having struck Zalachenko on the head with an axe.”

There was a long silence. Then Modig leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I just want to say that we on the police force don’t put much faith in Zalachenko’s story. Do have a serious discussion with your lawyer so we can come back later and have another talk.”

The detectives stood up.

“Thanks for the help with Niedermann,” Erlander said.

Salander was surprised that the officers had treated her in such a correct, almost friendly manner. She thought about what the Modig woman had said. There would be some ulterior motive, she decided.

At 5.45 p.m. on Monday Blomkvist closed the lid on his iBook and got up from the kitchen table in his apartment on Bellmansgatan. He put on a jacket and walked to Milton Security’s offices at Slussen. He took the lift up to the reception on the fourth floor and was immediately shown into a conference room. It was 6.00 p.m. on the dot, but he was the last to arrive.

“Hello, Dragan,” he said and shook hands. “Thank you for being willing to host this informal meeting.”

Blomkvist looked around the room. There were four others there: his sister, Salander’s former guardian Holger Palmgren, Malin Eriksson, and former Criminal Inspector Sonny Bohman, who now worked for Milton Security. At Armansky’s instruction Bohman had been following the Salander investigation from the very start.

Palmgren was on his first outing in more than two years. Dr Sivarnandan of the Ersta rehabilitation home had been less than enchanted at the idea of letting him out, but Palmgren himself had insisted. He had come by special transport for the disabled, accompanied by his personal nurse, Johanna Karolina Oskarsson, whose salary was paid from a fund that had been mysteriously established to provide Palmgren with the best possible care. The nurse was sitting in an office next to the conference room. She had brought a book with her. Blomkvist closed the door behind him.

“For those of you who haven’t met her before, this is Malin Eriksson, Millennium’s editor-in-chief. I asked her to be here because what we’re going to discuss will also affect her job.”

“O.K.,” Armansky said. “Everyone’s here. I’m all ears.”

Blomkvist stood at Armansky’s whiteboard and picked up a marker. He looked around.