On the one hand, the media regarded Säpo as an excellent news source, and almost any political blunder gave rise to headlines: “Säpo suspects that …” A Säpo statement carried a lot of weight in a headline.

On the other hand, politicians of various affiliations, along with the media, were particularly diligent in condemning exposed Säpo agents if they had spied on Swedish citizens. Armansky found this entirely contradictory. He did not have anything against the existence of Säpo. Someone had to take responsibility for seeing to it that national-Bolshevist crackpots – who had read too much Bakunin or whoever the hell these neo-Nazis read – did not patch together a bomb made of fertilizer and oil and park it in a van outside Rosenbad. Säpo was necessary, and Armansky did not think a little discreet surveillance was such a bad thing, so long as its objective was to safeguard the security of the nation.

The problem, of course, was that an organization assigned to spy on citizens must remain under strict public scrutiny. There had to be a high level of constitutional oversight. But it was almost impossible for Members of Parliament to have oversight of Säpo, even when the Prime Minister appointed a special investigator who, on paper at least, was supposed to have access to everything. Armansky had Blomkvist’s copy of Lidbom’s book An Assignment, and he was reading it with gathering astonishment. If this were the United States a dozen or so senior Säpo hands would have been arrested for obstruction of justice and forced to appear before a public committee in Congress. In Sweden apparently they were untouchable.

The Salander case demonstrated that something was out of joint inside the organization. But when Blomkvist came over to give him a secure mobile, Armansky’s first thought was that the man was paranoid. It was only when he heard the details and studied Malm’s photographs that he reluctantly admitted that Blomkvist had good reason to be suspicious. It did not bode well, but rather indicated that the conspiracy that had tried to eliminate Salander fifteen years earlier was not a thing of the past.

There were simply too many incidents for this to be coincidence. Never mind that Zalachenko had supposedly been murdered by a nutter. It had happened at the same time that both Blomkvist and Giannini were robbed of the document that was the cornerstone in the burden of proof. That was a shattering misfortune. And then the key witness, Gunnar Björck, had gone and hanged himself.

“Are we agreed that I pass this on to my contact?” Armansky said, gathering up Blomkvist’s documentation.

“And this is a person that you say you can trust?”

“An individual of the highest moral standing.”

“Inside Säpo?” Blomkvist said with undisguised scepticism.

“We have to be of one mind. Both Holger and I have accepted your plan and are co-operating with you. But we can’t clear this matter up all by ourselves. We have to find allies within the bureaucracy if this is not going to end in calamity.”

“O.K.” Blomkvist nodded reluctantly. “I’ve never had to give out information on a story before it’s published.”

“But in this case you already have. You’ve told me, your sister, and Holger.”

“True enough.”

“And you did it because even you recognize that this is far more than just a scoop in your magazine. For once you’re not an objective reporter, but a participant in unfolding events. And as such you need help. You’re not going to win on your own.”

Blomkvist gave in. He had not, in any case, told the whole truth either to Armansky or to his sister. He still had one or two secrets that he shared only with Salander.

He shook hands with Armansky.

Three days after Berger started as acting editor-in-chief of S.M.P., Editor-in-Chief Morander died at lunchtime. He had been in the glass cage all morning, while Berger and assistant editor Peter Fredriksson met the sports editors so that she could get to know her colleagues and find out how they worked. Fredriksson was forty-five years old and also relatively new to the paper. He was taciturn but pleasant, with a broad experience. Berger had already decided that she would be able to depend on Fredriksson’s insights when she took command of the ship. She was spending a good part of her time evaluating the people she might be able to count on and could then make part of her new regime. Fredriksson was definitely a candidate.

When they got back to the news desk they saw Morander get up and come over to the door of the glass cage. He looked startled.

Then he leaned forward, grabbed the back of a chair and held on to it for a few seconds before he collapsed to the floor.

He was dead before the ambulance arrived.

There was a confused atmosphere in the newsroom throughout the afternoon. Chairman of the Board Borgsjö arrived at 2.00 and gathered the employees for a brief memorial to Morander. He spoke of how Morander had dedicated the past fifteen years of his life to the newspaper, and the price that the work of a newspaperman can sometimes exact. Finally he called for a minute’s silence.

Berger realized that several of her new colleagues were looking at her. The unknown quantity.

She cleared her throat and without being invited to, without knowing what she would say, took half a step forward and spoke in a firm voice: “I knew Håkan Morander for all of three days. That’s too short a time, but from even the little I managed to know of him, I can honestly say that I would have wanted very much to know him better.”

She paused when she saw out of the corner of her eye that Borgsjö was staring at her. He seemed surprised that she was saying anything at all. She took another pace forward.

“Your editor-in-chief’s untimely departure will create problems in the newsroom. I was supposed to take over from him in two months, and I was counting on having the time to learn from his experience.”

She saw that Borgsjö had opened his mouth as if to say something himself.

“That won’t happen now, and we’re going to go through a period of adjustment. But Morander was editor-in-chief of a daily newspaper, and this paper will come out tomorrow too. There are now nine hours left before we go to press and four before the front page has to be resolved. May I ask… who among you was Morander’s closest confidant?”

A brief silence followed as the staff looked at each other. Finally Berger heard a voice from the left side of the room.

“That would probably be me.”

It was Gunnar Magnusson, assistant editor of the front page who had worked on the paper for thirty-five years.

“Somebody has to write an obit. I can’t do it… that would be presumptuous of me. Could you possibly write it?”

Magnusson hesitated a moment but then said, “I’ll do it.”

“We’ll use the whole front page and move everything else back.”

Magnusson nodded.

“We need images.” She glanced to her right and met the eye of the pictures editor, Lennart Torkelsson. He nodded.

“We have to get busy on this. Things might be a bit rocky at first. When I need help making a decision, I’ll ask your advice and I’ll depend on your skill and experience. You know how the paper is made and I have a while to go on the school bench.”

She turned to Fredriksson.

“Peter, Morander put a great deal of trust in you. You will have to be something of a mentor to me for the time being, and carry a heavier load than usual. I’m asking you to be my adviser.”

He nodded. What else could he do?

She returned to the subject of the front page.

“One more thing. Morander was writing his editorial this morning. Gunnar, could you get into his computer and see whether he finished it? Even if it’s not quite rounded out, we’ll publish it. It was his last editorial and it would be a crying shame not to print it. The paper we’re making today is still Håkan Morander’s paper.”