Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [142]
He put his arms around her. She felt tears in her eyes.
“Three weeks at S.M.P. have already done me in,” she said.
“Now now. It takes more than that to do in Erika Berger.”
“Your apartment is compromised. And I’m too tired to drive home. I’d fall asleep at the wheel and die in a crash. I’ve decided. I’m going to walk to the Scandic Crown and book a room. Come with me.”
“It’s called the Hilton now.”
“Same difference.”
They walked the short distance without talking. Blomkvist had his arm around her shoulders. Berger glanced at him and saw that he was just as tired as she was.
They went straight to the front desk, took a double room, and paid with Berger’s credit card. When they got to the room they undressed, showered, and crawled into bed. Berger’s muscles ached as though she had just run the Stockholm marathon. They cuddled for a while and then both fell asleep in seconds.
Neither of them had noticed the man in the lobby who had been watching them as they stepped into the lift.
CHAPTER 15
Thursday, 19.v – Sunday, 22.v
Salander spent most of Wednesday night and early Thursday morning reading Blomkvist’s articles and the chapters of the Millennium book that were more or less finished. Since Prosecutor Ekström had tentatively referred to a trial in July, Blomkvist had set June 20 as his deadline for going to press. That meant that Blomkvist had about a month to finish writing and patching up all the holes in his text.
She could not imagine how he could finish in time, but that was his problem, not hers. Her problem was how to respond to his questions.
She took her Palm and logged on to the Yahoo group [Idiotic_Table] to check whether he had put up anything new in the past twenty-four hours. He had not. She opened the document that he had called [Central questions]. She knew the text by heart already, but she read through it again anyway.
He outlined the strategy that Giannini had already explained to her. When her lawyer spoke to her she had listened with only half an ear, almost as though it had nothing to do with her. But Blomkvist, knowing things about her that Giannini did not, could present a more forceful strategy. She skipped down to the fourth paragraph.
The only person who can decide your future is you. It doesn’t matter how hard Annika works for you, or how much Armansky and Palmgren and I, and others, try to support you. I’m not going to try to convince you one way or the other. You’ve got to decide for yourself. You could turn the trial to your advantage or let them convict you. But if you want to win, you’re going to have to fight.
She disconnected and looked up at the ceiling. Blomkvist was asking her for permission to tell the truth in his book. He was not going to mention the fact of Bjurman raping her, and he had already written that section. He had filled in the gaps by saying that Bjurman had made a deal with Zalachenko which collapsed when Bjurman lost control. Therefore Niedermann was obliged to kill him. Blomkvist did not speculate about Bjurman’s motives.
Kalle Bloody Blomkvist was complicating life for her.
At 2.00 in the morning she opened the word processing program on her Palm. She clicked on New Document, took out the stylus and began to tap on the letters on the digital keypad.
My name is Lisbeth Salander. I was born on 30 April 1978. My mother was Agneta Sofia Salander. She was seventeen when I was born. My father was a psychopath, a killer and wife beater whose name was Alexander Zalachenko. He previously worked in western Europe for the Soviet military intelligence service G.R.U.
It was a slow process, writing with the stylus on the keypad. She thought through each sentence before she tapped it in. She did not make a single revision to the text she had written. She worked until 4.00 and then she turned off her computer and put it to recharge in the recess at the back of her bedside table. By that time she had produced a document corresponding