The Girl Who Lived Twice (Millennium #6) - David Lagercrantz Page 0,6
noticed then that her hands were shaking and she did not think it was because of the rain or the cold. Nervous tension had brought her close to breaking point.
She pulled out her mobile to check everything was prepared. The attack had to be perfectly coordinated, or she would be lost. She went through it once, twice, three times. But the minutes were running away from her and she began to have doubts. The rain fell and nothing was happening. It was looking more and more like yet another missed opportunity.
The guests all seemed to have arrived. Even Kuznetsov had gone inside. The party was in full swing, the men were already knocking back shots and groping the girls. She decided to go back to the hotel.
But at that moment another limousine drew up and a woman by the entrance hurried inside to fetch Kuznetsov, who came shambling out of the restaurant with sweat on his forehead and a glass of champagne in his hand. Salander decided to stay after all. This guest was important, that much was obvious from the behaviour of the security guards and the tension in the air, as well as the ridiculous look on Kuznetsov’s face. Salander slunk back into her doorway. But nobody emerged from the limousine.
No chauffeur jumped out into the rain to open the door, the car just stood there. Kuznetsov straightened his hair and bow tie, pulled in his stomach and drained his glass. Salander stopped trembling. She picked up something in Kuznetsov’s eyes that she recognized only too well, and with no further hesitation she launched her attack.
Then she tucked her mobile into her pocket and let the programme codes do their work while she looked around, noting every detail of her surroundings with photographic precision: the body language of the guards, the proximity of their hands to their weapons, the gaps between their shoulders along the red carpet, the irregularities and puddles on the pavement before her.
Motionless, almost catatonic, she stood watching right up to the moment when the chauffeur got out of the limousine, unfurled an umbrella and opened the back door. Then she moved forward with cat-like steps, her hand on the grip of the pistol inside her jacket.
CHAPTER 3
August 15
Blomkvist was no longer on very good terms with his mobile and should have got himself a private number long ago. But he was reluctant to do so. As a journalist he did not want to make himself inaccessible to members of the public. And yet he suffered from the endless calls he received, and he felt that something had changed in the course of the past year.
The tone had become rougher. People insulted him and shouted at him, or came to him with the craziest tip-offs. He had all but given up answering calls from unknown numbers. He simply let his mobile vibrate and ring, and if he ever did pick up, as now, he often found himself pulling a face without intending to.
“Blomkvist,” he said, grabbing another beer from the refrigerator.
“Apologies,” said a woman’s voice. “Shall I call back later?”
“No, don’t bother,” he answered in a milder tone. “What’s it about?”
“My name is Fredrika Nyman, I’m a doctor at the National Board of Forensic Medicine in Solna.”
He was struck by fear.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened, other than the stuff that always happens, and I’m sure that’s got nothing to do with you. But we’ve had a body in—”
“A woman?” he interrupted.
“No, no, very definitely a man. Well, very definitely…that’s a strange way of putting it, isn’t it? But it is a man, maybe in his sixties or a bit younger, who’s clearly been to hell and back. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Would you mind getting to the point?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you. I don’t think it’s likely you knew him. He was a down-and-out, and right at the bottom of the pecking order even in those circles.”
“So what has he got to do with me?”
“He had your mobile number in his pocket.”
“Lots of people do,” Blomkvist said, irritated. Immediately he felt he had been tactless.
“I do understand,” Fredrika Nyman went on. “You must be bombarded with calls. But this is something I feel strongly about.”
“In what way?”
“I believe that even the worst wrecks among us deserve some dignity in death.”
“Of course,” he said, to make up for his lack of sympathy a moment ago.
“Precisely,” she said, “and Sweden has always been a civilized country in that respect. But with each passing