and saw to her dismay that a shard of glass had pierced her heel. At first she felt faint. Then she steeled herself and took hold of the shard and pulled it out. The pain was appalling, and blood gushed from the wound.
She pulled open a drawer in the hall where she kept scarves, gloves and hats. She found a scarf and wrapped it around her foot and tied it tight. That was not going to be enough, so she reinforced it with another improvised bandage. The bleeding had apparently subsided.
She looked at the bloodied piece of glass in amazement. How did this get here? Then she discovered more glass on the hall floor. Jesus Christ... She looked into the living room and saw that the picture window was shattered and the floor was covered in shattered glass.
She went back to the front door and put on the outdoor shoes she had kicked off as she came home. That is, she put on one shoe and stuck the toes of her injured foot into the other, and hopped into the living room to take stock of the damage.
Then she found the brick in the middle of the living-room floor.
She limped over to the balcony door and went out to the garden. Someone had sprayed in metre-high letters on the back wall:
WHORE
It was just after 9.00 in the evening when Figuerola held the car door open for Blomkvist. She went around the car and got into the driver's seat.
"Should I drive you home or do you want to be dropped off somewhere?"
Blomkvist stared straight ahead. "I haven't got my bearings yet, to be honest. I've never had a confrontation with a prime minister before."
Figuerola laughed. "You played your cards very well," she said. "I would never have guessed you were such a good poker player."
"I meant every word."
"Of course, but what I meant was that you pretended to know a lot more than you actually do. I realized that when I worked out how you identified me."
Blomkvist turned and looked at her profile.
"You wrote down my car registration when I was parked on the hill outside your building. You made it sound as if you knew what was being discussed at the Prime Minister's secretariat."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Blomkvist said.
She gave him a quick look and turned on to Grev Turegatan. "The rules of the game. I shouldn't have picked that spot, but there wasn't anywhere else to park. You keep a sharp eye on your surroundings, don't you?"
"You were sitting with a map spread out on the front seat, talking on the telephone. I took down your registration and ran a routine check. I check out every car that catches my attention. I usually draw a blank. In your case I discovered that you worked for Sapo."
"I was following Mårtensson."
"Aha. So simple."
"Then I discovered that you were tailing him using Susanne Linder at Milton Security."
"Armansky's detailed her to keep an eye on what goes on around my apartment."
"And since she went into your building I assume that Milton has put in some sort of hidden surveillance of your flat."
"That's right. We have an excellent film of how they break in and go through my papers. Mårtensson carries a portable photocopier with him. Have you identified Mårtensson's sidekick?"
"He's unimportant. A locksmith with a criminal record who's probably being paid to open your door."
"Name?"
"Protected source?"
"Naturally."
"Lars Faulsson. Forty-seven. Alias Falun. Convicted of safe-cracking in the '80s and some other minor stuff. Has a shop at Norrtull."
"Thanks."
"But let's save the secrets till we meet again tomorrow."
The meeting had ended with an agreement that Blomkvist would come to Constitutional Protection the next day to set in train an exchange of information. Blomkvist was thinking. They were just passing Sergels Torg in the city centre.
"You know what? I'm incredibly hungry. I had a late lunch and was going to make a pasta when I got home, but I was waylaid by you. Have you eaten?"
"A while ago."
"Take us to a restaurant where we can get some decent food."
"All food is decent."
He looked at her. "I thought you were a health-food fanatic."
"No, I'm a workout fanatic. If you work out you can eat whatever you want. Within reason."
She braked at the Klaraberg viaduct and considered the options. Instead of turning down towards Sodermalm she kept going straight to Kungsholmen.
"I don't know what the restaurants are like in Soder, but I know an excellent Bosnian place at Fridhemsplan. Their burek is fantastic."
"Sounds good," Blomkvist said.
Salander tapped her