but I think you'll have to inform the speaker of parliament and the constitutional committee... This is going to leak out fast," the Minister of Justice said.
"In other words, we have to work faster," the P.M. said.
Figuerola raised a hand.
"What is it?" the P.M. said.
"There are two problems remaining. First, will Millennium's publication clash with our investigation, and second, Lisbeth Salander's trial will be starting in a couple of weeks."
"Can we find out when Millennium's going to publish?"
"We could ask," Edklinth said. "The last thing we want to do is to interfere with the press."
"With regard to this girl Salander..." the Minister of Justice began, and then he paused for a moment. "It would be terrible if she really has been subjected to the injustices that Millennium claims. Could it really be possible?"
"I'm afraid it is," Edklinth said.
"In that case we have to see to it that she is given redress for these wrongs, and above all that she is not subjected to new injustices," the P.M. said.
"And how would that work?" asked the Minister of Justice. "The government cannot interfere in an ongoing prosecution case. That would be against the law."
"Could we talk to the prosecutor?"
"No," Edklinth said. "As Prime Minister you may not influence the judicial process in any way."
"In other words, Salander will have to take her chances in court," the Minister of Justice said. "Only if she loses the trial and appeals to the government can the government step in and pardon her or require the P.G. to investigate whether there are grounds for a new trial. But this applies only if she's sentenced to prison. If she's sentenced to a secure psychiatric facility, the government cannot do a thing. Then it's a medical matter, and the Prime Minister has no jurisdiction to determine whether or not she is sane."
At 10.00 on Friday night, Salander heard the key turn in the door. She instantly switched off her Palm and slipped it under the mattress. When she looked up she saw Jonasson closing the door.
"Good evening, Froken Salander," he said. "And how are you doing this evening?"
"I have a splitting headache and I feel feverish."
"That doesn't sound so good."
Salander looked to be not particularly bothered by either the fever or the headache. Jonasson spent ten minutes examining her. He noticed that over the course of the evening her fever had again risen dramatically.
"It's a shame that you should be having this setback when you've been recovering so well over the past few weeks. Unfortunately I won't now be able to discharge you for at least two more weeks."
"Two weeks should be sufficient."
The distance by land from London to Stockholm is roughly 1900 kilometres, or 1180 miles. In theory that would be about twenty hours' driving. In fact it had taken almost twenty hours to reach the northern border of Germany with Denmark. The sky was filled with leaden thunderclouds, and when the man known as Trinity found himself on Sunday in the middle of the oresundsbron, there was a downpour. He slowed and turned on his windscreen wipers.
Trinity thought it was sheer hell driving in Europe, since everyone on the Continent insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road. He had packed his van on Friday morning and taken the ferry from Dover to Calais, then crossed Belgium by way of Liege. He crossed the German border at Aachen and then took the Autobahn north towards Hamburg and on to Denmark.
His companion, Bob the Dog, was asleep in the back. They had taken it in turns to drive, and apart from a couple of hour-long stops along the way, they had maintained a steady ninety kilometres an hour. The van was eighteen years old and was not able to go much faster anyway.
There were easier ways of getting from London to Stockholm, but it was not likely that he would be able to take thirty kilos of electronic gear on a normal flight. They had crossed six national borders but they had not been stopped once, either by customs or by passport control. Trinity was an ardent fan of the E.U., whose regulations simplified his visits to the Continent.
Trinity was born in Bradford, but he had lived in north London since childhood. He had had a miserable formal education, and then attended a vocational school and earned a certificate as a trained telecommunications technician. For three years after his nineteenth birthday he had worked as an engineer for British Telecom. Once he had understood how