“I hope all’s well with your father. But that’s not why you came, is it?”

“No. Dad’s doing fine. He’s out repairing the roof of the cabin.”

“How old is he now?”

“He turned seventy-one two months ago.”

“Is that so?” Fälldin said, joining Holmberg at the kitchen table. “So what’s this visit all about then?”

Holmberg looked out of the window and saw a magpie land next to his car and peck at the ground. Then he turned to Fälldin.

“I am sorry for coming to see you without warning, but I have a big problem. It’s possible that when this conversation is over, I’ll be fired from my job. I’m here on a work issue, but my boss, Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski of the Violent Crimes Division in Stockholm, doesn’t know I’m here.”

“That sounds serious.”

“Just to say that I’d be on very thin ice if my superiors found out about this visit.”

“I understand.”

“On the other hand I’m afraid that if I don’t do something, there’s a risk that a woman’s rights will be shockingly violated, and to make matters worse, it’ll be the second time it’s happened.”

“You’d better tell me the whole story.”

“It’s about a man named Alexander Zalachenko. He was an agent for the Soviets’ G.R.U. and defected to Sweden on Election Day in 1976. He was given asylum and began to work for Säpo. I have reason to believe that you know his story.”

Fälldin regarded Holmberg attentively.

“It’s a long story,” Holmberg said, and he began to tell Fälldin about the preliminary investigation in which he had been involved for the past few months.

Erika Berger finally rolled over on to her stomach and rested her head on her fists. She broke out in a big smile.

“Mikael, have you ever wondered if the two of us aren’t completely nuts?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s true for me, at least. I’m smitten by an insatiable desire for you. I feel like a crazy teenager.”

“Oh yes?”

“And then I want to go home and go to bed with my husband.”

Blomkvist laughed. “I know a good therapist.”

She poked him in the stomach. “Mikael, it’s starting to feel like this thing with S.M.P. was a seriously big mistake.”

“Nonsense. It’s a huge opportunity for you. If anyone can inject life into that dying body, it’s you.”

“Maybe so. But that’s just the problem. S.M.P. feels like a dying body. And then you dropped that bombshell about Borgsjö.”

“You’ve got to let things settle down.”

“I know. But the thing with Borgsjö is going to be a real problem. I don’t have the faintest idea how to handle it.”

“Nor do I. But we’ll think of something.”

She lay quiet for a moment.

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“How much would it take for you to come to S.M.P. and be the news editor?”

“I wouldn’t do it for anything. Isn’t what’s-his-name, Holm, the news editor?”

“Yes. But he’s an idiot.”

“You got him in one.”

“Do you know him?”

“I certainly do. I worked for him for three months as a temp in the mid-’80s. He’s a prick who plays people off against each other. Besides…”

“Besides what?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Some girl, Ulla something, who was also a temp, claimed that he sexually harassed her. I don’t know how much was true, but the union did nothing about it and her contract wasn’t extended.”

Berger looked at the clock and sighed. She got up from the bed and made for the shower. Blomkvist did not move when she came out, dried herself, and dressed.

“I think I’ll doze for a while,” he said.

She kissed his cheek and waved as she left.

Figuerola parked seven cars behind Mårtensson’s Volvo on Luntmakargatan, close to the corner of Olof Palmes Gata. She watched as Mårtensson walked to the machine to pay his parking fee. He then walked on to Sveavägen.

Figuerola decided not to pay for a ticket. She would lose him if she went to the machine and back, so she followed him. He turned left on to Kungsgatan, and went into Kungstornet. She waited three minutes before she followed him into the café. He was on the ground floor talking to a blond man who looked to be in very good shape. A policeman she thought. She recognized him as the other man Malm had photographed outside the Copacabana on May Day.

She bought herself a coffee and sat at the opposite end of the café and opened her Dagens Nyheter. Mårtensson and his companion were talking in low voices. She took out her mobile and pretended to make a call, although neither of the men were paying her any attention. She took a photograph with the mobile that she knew would be only 72 dpi – low quality, but it could be used as evidence that the meeting had taken place.

After about fifteen minutes the blond man stood up and left the café. Figuerola cursed. Why had she not stayed outside? She would have recognized him when he came out. She wanted to leap up and follow him. But Mårtensson was still there, calmly nursing his coffee. She did not want to draw attention to herself by leaving so soon after his unidentified companion.

And then Mårtensson went to the toilet. As soon as he closed the door Figuerola was on her feet and back out on Kungsgatan. She looked up and down the block, but the blond man was gone.

She took a chance and hurried to the corner of Sveavägen. She could not see him anywhere, so she went down to the tunnelbana concourse, but it was hopeless.

She turned back towards Kungstornet, feeling stressed. Mårtensson had left too.

Berger swore when she got back to where she had parked her B.M.W. the night before.

The car was still there, but during the night some bastard had punctured all four tyres. Infernal bastard piss rats, she fumed.

She called the vehicle recovery service, told them that she did not have time to wait, and put the key in the exhaust pipe. Then she went down to Hornsgaten and hailed a taxi.

Lisbeth Salander logged on to Hacker Republice and saw that Plague was online. She pinged him.

his email. You’ll have to send the material to a hotmail address.›

Plague went quiet for a few seconds.

She explained what she needed to have done.

On Friday morning Jonasson was faced with an obviously irritated Inspector Faste on the other side of his desk.

“I don’t understand this,” Faste said. “I thought Salander had recovered. I came to Göteborg for two reasons: to interview her and to get her ready to be transferred to a cell in Stockholm, where she belongs.”

“I’m sorry for your wasted journey,” Jonasson said. “I’d be glad to discharge her because we certainly don’t have any beds to spare here. But-”

“Could she be faking?”

Jonasson smiled politely. “I really don’t think so. You see, Lisbeth Salander was shot in the head. I removed a bullet from her brain, and it was 50/50 whether she would survive. She did survive and her prognosis has been exceedingly satisfactory… so much so that my colleagues and I were getting ready to discharge her. Then yesterday she had a setback. She complained of severe headaches and developed a fever that has been fluctuating up and down. Last night she had a temperature of 38 and vomited on two occasions. During the night the fever subsided; she was almost back down to normal and I thought the episode had passed. But when I examined her this morning her temperature had gone up to almost 39. That is serious.”

“So what’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know, but the fact that her temperature is fluctuating indicates that it’s not flu or any other viral infection. Exactly what’s causing it I can’t say, but it could be something as simple as an allergy to her medication or to something else she’s come into contact with.”

He clicked on an image on his computer and turned the screen towards Faste.

“I had a cranial X-ray done. There’s a darker area here, as you can see right next to her gunshot wound. I can’t determine what it is. It could be scar tissue as a product of the healing process, but it could also be a minor haemorrhage. And until we’ve found out what’s wrong, I can’t release her, no matter how urgent it may be from a police point of view.”