The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest Page 0,47

Immediately it was easier to breathe.

What she wanted more than anything was a weapon, and to have the strength to get up and finish the job once and for all.

With difficulty she propped herself up, switched on the night light and looked around the room. She could see nothing that would serve her purpose. Then her eyes fell on a nurses' table by the wall three metres from her bed. Someone had left a pencil there.

She waited until the night nurse had been and gone, which tonight she seemed to be doing about every half hour. Presumably the reduced frequency of the nurse's visits meant that the doctors had decided her condition had improved; over the weekend the nurses had checked on her at least once every fifteen minutes. For herself, she could hardly notice any difference.

When she was alone she gathered her strength, sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had electrodes taped to her body to record her pulse and breathing, but the wires stretched in the direction of the pencil. She put her weight on her feet and stood up. Suddenly she swayed, off balance. For a second she felt as though she would faint, but she steadied herself against the bedhead and concentrated her gaze on the table in front of her. She took small, wobbly steps, reached out and grabbed the pencil.

Then she retreated slowly to the bed. She was exhausted.

After a while she managed to pull the sheet and blanket up to her chin. She studied the pencil. It was a plain wooden pencil, newly sharpened. It would make a passable weapon - for stabbing a face or an eye.

She laid it next to her hip and fell asleep.

CHAPTER 6

MONDAY, 11.IV

Blomkvist got up just after 9.00 and called Eriksson at Millennium.

"Good morning, editor-in-chief," he said.

"I'm still in shock that Erika is gone and you want me to take her place. I can't believe she's gone already. Her office is empty."

"Then it would probably be a good idea to spend the day moving in there."

"I feel extremely self-conscious."

"Don't be. Everyone agrees that you're the best choice. And if need be you can always come to me or Christer."

"Thank you for your trust in me."

"You've earned it," Blomkvist said. "Just keep working the way you always do. We'll deal with any problems as and when they crop up."

He told her he was going to be at home all day writing. Eriksson realized that he was reporting in to her the way he had with Berger.

"O.K. Is there anything you want us to do?"

"No. On the contrary... if you have any instructions for me, just call. I'm still on the Salander story, trying to find out what's happening there, but for everything else to do with the magazine, the ball's in your court. You make the decisions. You'll have my support if you need it."

"And what if I make a wrong decision?"

"If I see or hear anything out of the ordinary, we'll talk it through. But it would have to be something very unusual. Generally there aren't any decisions that are 100 per cent right or wrong. You'll make your decisions, and they might not be the same ones Erika would have made. If I were to make the decisions they would be different again, but your decisions are the ones that count."

"Alright."

"If you're a good leader then you'll discuss any concerns with the others. First with Henry and Christer, then with me, and we'll raise any awkward problems at the editorial meetings."

"I'll do my best."

"Good luck."

He sat down on the sofa in the living room with his iBook on his lap and worked without any breaks all day. When he was finished, he had a rough draft of two articles totalling twenty-one pages. That part of the story focused on the deaths of Svensson and Johansson - what they were working on, why they were killed, and who the killer was. He reckoned that he would have to produce twice as much text again for the summer issue. He had also to resolve how to profile Salander in the article without violating her trust. He knew things about her that she would never want published.

Gullberg had a single slice of bread and a cup of black coffee in Frey's cafe. Then he took a taxi to Artillerigatan in ostermalm. At 9.15 he introduced himself on the entry phone and was buzzed inside. He took the