The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest Page 0,22

She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

"I think you're awake," the nurse said.

"Mmm," Salander said.

"Hello, my name is Marianne. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Salander tried to nod, but her head was immobilized by the brace.

"No, don't try to move. You don't have to be afraid. You've been hurt and had surgery."

"Could I have some water?" Salander whispered.

The nurse gave her a beaker with a straw to drink water through. As she swallowed the water she saw another person appear on her left side.

"Hello, Lisbeth. Can you hear me?"

"Mmm."

"I'm Dr Helena Endrin. Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital."

"You're at the Sahlgrenska in Goteborg. You've had an operation and you're in the intensive care unit."

"Umm-hmm."

"There is no need to be afraid."

"I was shot in the head."

Endrin hesitated for a moment, then said, "That's right. So you remember what happened."

"The old bastard had a pistol."

"Ah... yes, well someone did."

"A.22."

"I see. I didn't know that."

"How badly hurt am I?"

"Your prognosis is good. You were in pretty bad shape, but we think you have a good chance of making a full recovery."

Salander weighed this information. Then she tried to fix her eyes on the doctor. Her vision was blurred.

"What happened to Zalachenko?"

"Who?"

"The old bastard. Is he alive?"

"You must mean Karl Axel Bodin."

"No, I don't. I mean Alexander Zalachenko. That's his real name."

"I don't know anything about that. But the elderly man who came in at the same time as you is critical but out of danger."

Salander's heart sank. She considered the doctor's words.

"Where is he?"

"He's down the hall. But don't worry about him for the time being. You have to concentrate on getting well."

Salander closed her eyes. She wondered whether she could manage to get out of bed, find something to use as a weapon, and finish the job. But she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She thought, He's going to get away again. She had missed her chance to kill Zalachenko.

"I'd like to examine you for a moment. Then you can go back to sleep," Dr Endrin said.

Blomkvist was suddenly awake and he did not know why. He did not know where he was, and then he remembered that he had booked himself a room in City Hotel. It was as dark as coal. He fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock. 2.00. He had slept through fifteen hours.

He got up and went to the bathroom. He would not be able to get back to sleep. He shaved and took a long shower. Then he put on some jeans and the maroon sweatshirt that needed washing. He called the front desk to ask if he could get coffee and a sandwich at this early hour. The night porter said that was possible.

He put on his sports jacket and went downstairs. He ordered a coffee and a cheese and liver pate sandwich. He bought the Goteborgs-Posten. The arrest of Lisbeth Salander was front-page news. He took his breakfast back to his room and read the paper. The reports at the time of going to press were somewhat confused, but they were on the right track. Ronald Niedermann, thirty-five, was being sought for the killing of a policeman. The police wanted to question him also in connection with the murders in Stockholm. The police had released nothing about Salander's condition, and the name Zalachenko was not mentioned. He was referred to only as a 66-year-old landowner from Gosseberga, and apparently the media had taken him for an innocent victim.

When Blomkvist had finished reading, he flipped open his mobile and saw that he had twenty unread messages. Three were messages to call Berger. Two were from his sister Annika. Fourteen were from reporters at various newspapers who wanted to talk to him. One was from Malm, who had sent him the brisk advice: It would be best if you took the first train home.

Blomkvist frowned. That was unusual, coming from Malm. The text was sent at 7.06 in the evening. He stifled the impulse to call and wake someone up at 3.00 in the morning. Instead he booted up his iBook and plugged the cable into the broadband jack. He found that the first train to Stockholm left at 5.20, and there was nothing new in Aftonbladet online.

He opened a new Word document, lit a cigarette, and sat for three minutes staring at the blank screen. Then he began to type.

Her name is Lisbeth Salander. Sweden has got to know her through police reports and press releases and