Berger put her hand over the mouthpiece.

“I think we’re done,” she said, and gave them one last instruction. When she was alone she said: “Hello, Mikael. Sorry not to have been in touch. I’m just so swamped here. There are a thousand things I’ve got to learn. How’s the Salander stuff going?”

“Good. But that’s not why I called. I have to see you. Tonight.”

“I wish I could, but I have to be here until 8.00. And I’m dead tired. I’ve been at it since dawn. What’s it about?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. But it’s not good.”

“I’ll come to your place at 8.30.”

“No. Not at mine. It’s a long story, but my apartment is unsuitable for the time being. Let’s meet at Samir’s Cauldron for a beer.”

“I’m driving.”

“Then we’ll have a light beer.”

Berger was slightly annoyed when she walked into Samir’s Cauldron. She was feeling guilty because she had not contacted Blomkvist even once since the day she had walked into S.M.P.

Blomkvist waved from a corner table. She stopped in the doorway. For a second he seemed a stranger. Who’s that over there? God, I’m so tired. Then he stood and kissed her on the cheek, and she realized to her dismay that she had not even thought about him for several weeks and that she missed him terribly. It was as though her time at S.M.P. had been a dream and she might suddenly wake up on the sofa at Millennium. It felt unreal.

“Hello, Mikael.”

“Hello, editor-in-chief. Have you eaten?”

“It’s 8.30. I don’t have your disgusting eating habits.”

Samir came over with the menu and, she realised she was hungry. She ordered a beer and a small plate of calamari with Greek potatoes. Blomkvist ordered couscous and a beer.

“How are you?” she said.

“These are interesting times we’re living in. I’m swamped too.”

“And Salander?”

“She’s part of what makes it so interesting.”

“Micke, I’m not going to steal your story.”

“I’m not trying to evade your question. The truth is that right now everything is a little confused. I’d love to tell you the whole thing, but it would take half the night. How do you like being editor-inchief?”

“It’s not exactly Millennium. I fall asleep like a blown-out candle as soon as I get home, and when I wake up, I see spreadsheets before my eyes. I’ve missed you. Can’t we go back to your place and sleep? I don’t have the energy for sex, but I’d love to curl up and sleep next to you.”

“I’m sorry, Ricky. The apartment isn’t a good place right now.”

“Why not? Has something happened?”

“Well, some spooks have bugged the place and they listen, presumably, to every word I say. I’ve had cameras installed to record what happens when I’m not home. I don’t think we should let the state archives have footage of your naked self.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. But that wasn’t why I had to see you tonight.”

“What is it? Tell me.”

“Well, I’ll be very direct. We’ve come across a story that will sink your chairman. It’s about using child labour and exploiting political prisoners in Vietnam. We’re looking at a conflict of interest.”

Berger put down her fork and stared at him. She saw at once that he was not being funny.

“This is how things stand,” he said. “Borgsjö is chairman and majority shareholder of a company called Svea Construction, which in turn is sole owner of a subsidiary called Vitavara Inc. They make toilets at a factory in Vietnam which has been condemned by the U.N. for using child labour.”

“Run that by me again.”

Blomkvist told her the details of the story that Cortez had compiled. He opened his laptop bag and took out a copy of the documentation. Berger read slowly through the article. Finally she looked up and met Blomkvist’s eyes. She felt unreasoning panic mixed with disbelief.

“Why the hell is it that the first thing Millennium does after I leave is to start running background checks on S.M.P.’s board members?”

“That’s not what happened, Ricky.” He explained how the story had developed.

“And how long have you known about this?”

“Since today, since this afternoon. I feel deeply uncomfortable about how this has unfolded.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. We have to publish. We can’t make an exception just because it deals with your boss. But not one of us wants to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “We are all extremely unhappy about the situation. Henry especially.”

“I’m still a member of Millennium’s board. I’m a part-owner… it’s going to be viewed as-”

“I know exactly how it’s going to be viewed. You’re going to land in a shitload of trouble at S.M.P.”

Berger felt weariness settling over her. She clenched her teeth and stifled an impulse to ask Blomkvist to sit on the story.

“God damn it,” she said. “And there’s no doubt in your mind…”

Blomkvist shook his head. “I spent the whole afternoon going over Henry’s documentation. We have Borgsjö ready for the slaughter.”

“So what are you planning, and when?”

“What would you have done if we’d uncovered this story two months ago?”

Berger looked intently at her friend, who had also been her lover over the past twenty years. Then she lowered her eyes.

“You know what I would have done.”

“This is a disastrous coincidence. None of it is directed at you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. That’s why I insisted on seeing you at once. We have to decide what to do.”

“We?”

“Listen… the story was slated to run in the July issue. I’ve killed that idea. The earliest it could come out is August, and it can be postponed for longer if you need more time.”

“I understand.” Her voice took on a bitter tone.

“I suggest we don’t decide anything now. Take the documentation and go home and think it over. Don’t do anything until we can agree a strategy. We’ve got time.”

“A common strategy?”

“You either have to resign from Millennium’s board before we publish, or resign from S.M.P. You can’t wear both hats.”

She nodded. “I’m so linked to Millennium that no-one will believe I didn’t have a finger in this, whether I resign or not.”

“There is an alternative. You could take the story to S.M.P. and confront Borgsjö and demand his resignation. I’m quite sure Henry would agree to that. But don’t do anything until we all agree.”

“So I start by getting the person who recruited me fired.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He isn’t a bad person.”

“I believe you. But he’s greedy.”

Berger got up. “I’m going home.”

“Ricky, I-”

She interrupted him. “I’m just dead tired. Thanks for warning me. I’ll let you know.”

She left without kissing him, and he had to pay the bill.

Berger had parked two hundred metres from the restaurant and was halfway to her car when she felt such strong heart palpitations that she had to stop and lean against a wall. She felt sick.

She stood for a long time breathing in the mild May air. She had been working fifteen hours a day since May 1. That was almost three weeks. How would she feel after three years? Was that how Morander had felt before he dropped dead in the newsroom?

After ten minutes she went back to Samir’s Cauldron and ran into Blomkvist as he was coming out of the door. He stopped in surprise.

“Erika…”

“Mikael, don’t say a word. We’ve been friends so long – nothing can destroy that. You’re my best friend, and this feels exactly like the time you disappeared to Hedestad two years ago, only vice versa. I feel stressed out and unhappy.”

He put his arms around her. She felt tears in her eyes.

“Three weeks at S.M.P. have already done me in,” she said.

“Now now. It takes more than that to do in Erika Berger.”