She had done her best to kill Zalachenko in 1991. Now, after all these years, he had struck back.
Palmgren had delivered a prescient analysis. Salander had experienced personally that it was no use talking to the authorities.
Blomkvist glanced at his laptop bag. He had brought along the Colt that he'd found in her desk. He wasn't sure why he had taken the gun, but he'd felt instinctively that he must not leave it in her apartment. He knew that wasn't much of a logical argument.
As the train rolled across Årstabron he flipped open his mobile and called Bublanski.
"What do you want?" Bublanski said, obviously annoyed.
"To tie up loose ends," Blomkvist said.
"Loose ends of what?"
"This whole mess. Do you want to know who murdered Svensson, Johansson, and Bjurman?"
"If you have information I'd like to hear it."
"The murderer's name is Ronald Niedermann. That's the giant who boxed with Paolo Roberto. He's a German citizen, thirty-five years old, and he works for a scumbag named Alexander Zalachenko, also known as Zala."
Bublanski said nothing for a long time, and then Blomkvist heard him sigh, turn over a sheet of paper, and click his ballpoint.
"And you're sure about this?"
"Yes."
"OK. So where are Niedermann and this Zalachenko?"
"I don't know yet. But as soon as I work it out I'll let you know. In a little while Erika Berger will deliver to you a police report from 1991. In it you'll find all sorts of information about Zalachenko and Salander."
"Like what?"
"That Zalachenko is Lisbeth's father, for example. That he's a hit man who defected from the Soviet Union during the Cold War."
"A Russian hit man?" Bublanski echoed.
"A faction within Sapo has been supporting him and concealing his criminal dealings."
Blomkvist heard Bublanski pull up a chair and sit down.
"I think it would be best if you came in and made a formal statement."
"I don't have time for that. I'm sorry."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not in Stockholm at the moment. But I'll send word as soon as I find Zalachenko."
"Blomkvist... You don't have to prove anything. I have doubts about Salander's guilt too."
"But I'm just a simple private investigator who doesn't know the first thing about police work."
It was childish, he knew, but he disconnected without waiting for Bublanski's reply. Instead he called Annika Giannini.
"Hi, Sis."
"Hi. Anything new?"
"I might be needing a good lawyer tomorrow."
"What have you done?"
"Nothing too serious yet, but I might be arrested for obstructing a police investigation. But that's not why I called. You couldn't represent me anyway."
"Why not?"
"Because I want you to take on the defence of Lisbeth Salander, and you can't look after both of us."
Blomkvist gave her a rapid rundown of the story. Giannini was ominously silent. Finally she said, "And you have documentation of all this... "
"I do."
"I'd have to think it over. Lisbeth really needs a criminal lawyer."
"You'd be perfect."
"Micke... "
"Listen, you were the one who was furious with me because I didn't ask for help when I needed it."
When they'd finished their conversation, Blomkvist sat thinking. Then he picked up his mobile and called Holger Palmgren. He didn't have any particular reason for doing so, but he wanted to tell him that he was following up one or two leads, and that he hoped the whole story would be resolved within the next few hours.
The problem was that Salander had leads too.
***
Salander reached for an apple in her backpack without taking her eyes off the farm. She lay stretched out at the edge of the woods with a floor mat from the Corolla as a groundsheet. She had taken off her wig and changed into green tracksuit pants with pockets, a thick sweater, and a midlength windbreaker with a thermal lining.
Gosseberga Farm lay about four hundred yards from the road. There were four buildings. The main building was about a hundred and twenty yards in front of her, an ordinary white-frame house on two floors, with a shed and a barn seventy yards beyond the farmhouse. Through the barn door she could see the front of a white car. She thought it was a Volvo, but it was too far away for her to be sure.
Between her and the main building there was a muddy field that extended to the right about two hundred yards down towards a pond. The driveway cut through the field and disappeared into a small stand of trees towards the road. Next to the road there was another farmhouse that looked to be abandoned; the windows were covered with plastic sheeting. Beyond the