The Girl Who Lived Twice (Millennium #6) - David Lagercrantz Page 0,27

It’s not possible to go on like this. She had to take action. It was no good just waiting and listening out for footsteps in the corridors and streets, or running away. So she had tried to regain the initiative. But it wasn’t easy.

The handle Katya Flip, recommended by Plague, was said to be one hell of a badass. To begin with it hadn’t felt like that. She kept on asking for more money and said that no-one messes with that branch of the mafia—especially not now that Ivan Galinov was involved.

There was endless talk about Galinov, and Kuznetsov too, and about some notorious acts of vengeance. Only after lengthy conversations on the dark web had Salander persuaded Flip to hide an IMSI-catcher in a rhododendron a hundred yards from Camilla’s house in Rublyovka, after which she had picked up tracking numbers—IMEI numbers—from the mobile traffic inside. That was something at least. But it gave no guarantees, nor any respite from the past, which was still throbbing and clamouring inside her. Often she would sit as now, eating room service junk food and emptying the minibar of whisky and vodka, and staring down at Camilla’s house via a satellite link she had hacked.

This alone was pure madness. She wouldn’t take any exercise or even go outside, and only when there was a knock at the door did she get up and open for Paulina, who was already chattering away about something. But Salander did not hear a word, not until Paulina burst out:

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You look—”

“—fucked up?” Salander said.

“Something along those lines. Is there anything I can do?”

Stay away, she thought. Stay away. But instead she went and lay on the bed, and wondered if Paulina would dare to join her.

* * *

—

Blomkvist shook Catrin Lindås’s hand. Her grip was firm, but she avoided his eyes. Her white blouse was buttoned to the neck, and she wore a skirt and a light-blue blazer with a tartan shawl and black high-heeled shoes. Her hair was up in a bun, and even though her clothes fitted closely and accentuated her figure, she looked as prim as a teacher at the English School. She was apparently the only person left in the office. On the bulletin board above her desk there was a picture of her onstage with Christine Lagarde, managing director of the International Monetary Fund. They looked like mother and daughter.

“Impressive,” he said, pointing at the photograph.

She made no comment, just asked him to take a seat on the sofa and settled into an armchair opposite him, her legs crossed and her back straight. In some absurd way it felt as if a reluctant queen were granting an audience to one of her subjects.

“Good of you to see me,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.”

She eyed him suspiciously, and he felt like asking why she disliked him so much.

“I’m not researching a piece on you, if that’s any comfort,” he said.

“You can write what you like about me.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

He gave a smile. She did not return it.

“In fact I’m on holiday,” he continued.

“Aren’t you lucky.”

He felt an inexplicable urge to needle her.

“I’m curious to hear about that beggar. What did he say to you? He was found dead a few days ago with my telephone number in his pocket.”

“OK…”

You could at least react to the fact that the guy is dead, he thought.

“He may have had something he wanted to tell me, so I’m curious to find out what he said to you.”

“Not much. All he did was shout and wave some sort of stick and frighten the life out of me.”

“What was he shouting?”

“The usual rubbish.”

“What do you call ‘the usual rubbish’?”

“That Johannes Forsell is a dodgy character generally.”

“He shouted that?”

“Well, it was something to do with Forsell, but my main concern was to get away. He was pulling at my arm and was violent and unpleasant, so you’ll forgive me for not staying and listening patiently to his conspiracy theories.”

“I understand. I really do,” he said, and he could not help feeling disappointed.

He was fed up with all the garbage being spouted about the Minister of Defence. It was one of the trolls’ favourite topics and the story grew more extravagant by the day. It seemed only a matter of time before they had Forsell running a pizzeria for paedophiles, and that was no doubt partly due to his uncompromising attitude towards right-wing extremists and xenophobes and his stated misgivings about Russia’s increasingly aggressive policies, but