The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

His contempt for his fellow financial journalists was based on something that in his opinion was as plain as morality. The equation was simple. A bank director who blows millions on foolhardy speculations should not keep his job. A managing director who plays shell company games should do time. A slum landlord who forces young people to pay through the nose and under the table for a one-room apartment with shared toilet should be hung out to dry.



The job of the financial journalist was to examine the sharks who created interest crises and speculated away the savings of small investors, to scrutinise company boards with the same merciless zeal with which political reporters pursue the tiniest steps out of line of ministers and members of Parliament. He could not for the life of him understand why so many influential financial reporters treated mediocre financial whelps like rock stars.



These recalcitrant views had time after time brought him into conflict with his peers. Borg, for one, was going to be an enemy for life. His taking on a role of social critic had actually transformed him into a prickly guest on TV sofas - he was always the one invited to comment whenever any CEO was caught with a golden parachute worth billions.



Mikael had no trouble imagining that champagne bottles had been uncorked in some newspapers' back rooms that evening.



Erika had the same attitude to the journalist's role as he did. Even when they were in journalism school they had amused themselves by imagining a magazine with just such a mission statement.



Erika was the best boss Mikael could imagine. She was an organiser who could handle employees with warmth and trust but who at the same time wasn't afraid of confrontation and could be very tough when necessary. Above all, she had an icy gut feeling when it came to making decisions about the contents of the upcoming issue. She and Mikael often had differing views and could have healthy arguments, but they also had unwavering confidence in each other, and together they made an unbeatable team. He did the field work of tracking down the story, while she packaged and marketed it.



Millennium was their mutual creation, but it would never have become reality without her talent for digging up financing. It was the working-class guy and the upper-class girl in a beautiful union. Erika came from old money. She had put up the initial seed money and then talked both her father and various acquaintances into investing considerable sums in the project.



Mikael had often wondered why Erika had set her sights on Millennium. True, she was a part owner - the majority partner, in fact - and editor in chief of her own magazine, which gave her prestige and the control over publicity that she could hardly have obtained in any other job. Unlike Mikael, she had concentrated on television after journalism school. She was tough, looked fantastic on camera, and could hold her own with the competition. She also had good contacts in the bureaucracy. If she had stuck to it, she would undoubtedly have had a managerial job at one of the TV channels at a considerably higher salary than she paid herself now.



Berger had also convinced Christer Malm to buy into the magazine. He was an exhibitionist gay celebrity who sometimes appeared with his boyfriend in "at home with" articles. The interest in him began when he moved in with Arnold Magnusson, an actor with a background at the Royal Dramatic Theatre who had made a serious breakthrough when he played himself in a docu-soap. Christer and Arn had then become a media item.



At thirty-six, Malm was a sought-after professional photographer and designer who gave Millennium a modern look. He ran his business from an office on the same floor as Millennium, and he did graphic design one week in every month.



The Millennium staff consisted of three full-time employees, a full-time trainee, and two part-timers. It was not a lucrative affair, but the magazine broke even, and the circulation and advertising revenue had increased gradually but steadily. Until today the magazine was known for its frank and reliable editorial style.



Now the situation would in all probability be changing. Blomkvist read through the press release which he and Berger had drafted and which had quickly been converted to a wire service story from TT that was already up on Aftonbladet's website.



CONVICTED REPORTER LEAVES MILLENNIUM



Stockholm (T.T.). Journalist Mikael Blomkvist is leaving his post as publisher of the magazine Millennium, reports editor in chief and majority shareholder Erika Berger.



Blomkvist is leaving Millennium of his own choice. "He's exhausted after the drama of recent months and needs time off," says Berger, who will take over the role of publisher.



Blomkvist was one of the founders of Millennium, started in 1990. Berger does not think that the magazine will suffer in the wake of the so-called "Wennerstrom affair."



The magazine will come out as usual next month, says Berger.



"Mikael Blomkvist has played a major role in the magazine's development, but now we're turning a new page."



Berger states that she regards the Wennerstrom affair as the result of a series of unfortunate circumstances. She regrets the nuisance to which Hans-Erik Wennerstrom was subjected. Blomkvist could not be reached for comment.



"It makes me mad," Berger said when the press release was emailed out. "Most people are going to think that you're an idiot and I'm a bitch who's taking the opportunity to sack you."



"At least our friends will have something new to laugh about." Blomkvist tried to make light of it; she was not the least amused.



"I don't have a plan B, but I think we're making a mistake," she said.



"It's the only way out. If the magazine collapses, all our years of work will have been in vain. We've already taken a beating on the ads revenue. How did it go with the computer company, by the way?"



She sighed. "They told me this morning that they didn't want to take space in the next issue."



"Wennerstrom has a chunk of stock in that company, so it's no accident."



"We can scare up some new clients. Wennerstrom may be a big wheel, but he doesn't own everything in Sweden, and we have our contacts."



Blomkvist put an arm around her and pulled her close.



"Some day we're going to nail Herr Wennerstrom so hard Wall Street is going to jump out of its socks. But today Millennium has to get out of the spotlight."



"I know all that, but I don't like coming across as a fucking bitch, and you're being forced into a disgusting situation if we pretend that there's some sort of division between you and me."



"Ricky, as long as you and I trust each other we've got a chance. We have to play it by ear, and right now it's time to retreat."



She reluctantly admitted that there was a depressing logic to what he said.



CHAPTER 4



Monday, December 23 - Thursday, December 26



Berger stayed over the weekend. They got up only to go to the bathroom or to get something to eat, but they had not only made love. They had lain head to foot for hours and talked about the future, weighing up the possibilities, and the odds. When dawn came on Monday morning it was the day before Christmas Eve and she kissed him goodbye - until next time - and drove home.



Blomkvist spent Monday washing dishes and cleaning the apartment, then walking down to the office and clearing out his desk. He had no intention of breaking ties with the magazine, but he had eventually convinced Berger that he had to be separated from the magazine for a time. He would work from home.



The office was closed for the Christmas holidays and all his colleagues were gone. He was weeding through trays of papers and packing books in cartons to take away when the telephone rang.



"I'm looking for Mikael Blomkvist," said a hopeful but unfamiliar voice on the line.



"Speaking."



"Forgive me for bothering you like this unannounced, so to speak. My name is Dirch Frode." Blomkvist noted the name and the time. "I'm a lawyer, and I represent a client who would very much like to have a talk with you."



"That's fine, please ask your client to call me."



"I mean that he wants to meet with you in person."



"OK, make an appointment and send him up to the office. But you'd better hurry; I'm clearing out my desk right now."



"My client would like you to visit him in Hedestad - it's only three hours by train."



Blomkvist pushed a filing tray aside. The media have the ability to attract the craziest people to call in perfectly absurd tips. Every newsroom in the world gets updates from UFOlogists, graphologists, scientologists, paranoiacs, every sort of conspiracy theorist.



Blomkvist had once listened to a lecture by the writer Karl Alvar Nilsson at the ABF hall on the anniversary of the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme. The lecture was serious, and in the audience were Lennart Bodstrom and other friends of Palme's. But a surprising number of amateur investigators had turned up. One of them was a woman in her forties who during the Q and A had taken the proffered microphone and then lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. This alone heralded an interesting development, and nobody was surprised when the woman began by claiming, "I know who murdered Olof Palme." From the stage it was suggested somewhat ironically that if the woman had this information then it would be helpful if she shared it with the Palme investigation at once. She hurried to reply: "I can't," she said so softly it was almost impossible to hear. "It's too dangerous!"



Blomkvist wondered whether this Frode was another one of the truth-sayers who could reveal the secret mental hospital where Sapo, the Security Police, ran experiments on thought control.



"I don't make house calls," he said.



"I hope I can convince you to make an exception. My client is over eighty, and for him it would be too exhausting to come down to Stockholm. If you insist, we could certainly arrange something, but to tell you the truth, it would be preferable if you would be so kind..."



"Who is your client?"



"A person whose name I suspect you have heard in your work. Henrik Vanger."



Blomkvist leaned back in surprise. Henrik Vanger - of course he had heard of him. An industrialist and former head of the Vanger companies, once renowned in the fields of sawmills, mines, steel, metals, textiles. Vanger had been one of the really big fish in his day, with a reputation for being an honourable, old-fashioned patriarch who would not bend in a strong wind. A cornerstone of Swedish industry, one of the twenty-point stags of the old school, along with Matts Carlgren of MoDo and Hans Werthen at the old Electrolux. The backbone of industry in the welfare state, et cetera.



But the Vanger companies, still family-owned, had been racked in the past twenty-five years by reorganisations, stock-market crises, interest crises, competition from Asia, declining exports, and other nuisances which taken together had consigned the name Vanger to the backwater. The company was run today by Martin Vanger, whose name Blomkvist associated with a short, plump man with thick hair who occasionally flickered past on the TV screen. He did not know much about him. Henrik Vanger had been out of the picture for at least twenty years.



"Why does Henrik Vanger want to meet me?"



"I've been Herr Vanger's lawyer for many years, but he will have to tell you himself what he wants. On the other hand, I can say that Herr Vanger would like to discuss a possible job with you."



"Job? I don't have the slightest intention of going to work for the Vanger company. Is it a press secretary you need?"



"Not exactly. I don't know how to put it other than to say that Herr Vanger is exceedingly anxious to meet you and consult with you on a private matter."



"You couldn't get more equivocal, could you?"



"I beg your pardon for that. But is there any possibility of convincing you to pay a visit to Hedestad? Naturally we will pay all your expenses and a reasonable fee."



"Your call comes at rather an inconvenient time. I have quite a lot to take care of and... I suppose you've seen the headlines about me in the past few days."



"The Wennerstrom affair?" Frode chuckled. "Yes, that did have a certain amusement value. But to tell you the truth, it was the publicity surrounding the trial that caused Herr Vanger to take notice of you. He wants to offer you a freelance assignment. I'm only a messenger. What the matter concerns is something only he can explain."



"This is one of the odder calls I've had in a long time. Let me think about it. How can I reach you?"



***



Blomkvist sat looking at the disorder on his desk. He could not imagine what sort of job Vanger would want to offer him, but the lawyer had succeeded in arousing his curiosity.



He Googled the Vanger company. It might be in the backwaters but it seemed to be in the media almost daily. He saved a dozen company analyses and then searched for Frode, and Henrik and Martin Vanger.



Martin Vanger appeared diligent in his capacity as CEO of the Vanger Corporation. Frode kept a low profile; he was on the board of the Hedestad Country Club and active in the Rotary Club. Henrik Vanger appeared, with one exception, only in articles giving the background of the company. The Hedestad Courier had published a tribute to the former magnate on his eightieth birthday two years ago, and it included a short sketch. He put together a folder of fifty pages or so. Then finally he emptied his desk, sealed the cartons, and, having no idea whether he would come back, went home.



Salander spent Christmas Eve at the appelviken Nursing Home in Upplands-Vasby. She had brought presents: a bottle of eau de toilette by Dior and an English fruitcake from ahlens department store. She drank coffee as she watched the forty-six-year-old woman who with clumsy fingers was trying to untie the knot on the ribbon. Salander had tenderness in her eyes, but that this strange woman was her mother never ceased to amaze her. She could recognise not the slightest resemblance in looks or nature.



Her mother gave up the struggle and looked helplessly at the package. It was not one of her better days. Salander pushed across the scissors that had been in plain sight on the table and her mother suddenly seemed to wake up.