Balder left a telephone number and an email address and Blomkvist jotted them down and sat still for a while, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table. Then he dialled the number.
Balder was lying in bed, agitated and scared. Yet he was feeling a little calmer now. The car coming up his drive had been the police guard arriving at long last. Two men in their forties, one tall and one quite short, both looking cocky and with the same short, trendy haircut. But they were perfectly polite and apologized for the delay in taking up their post.
“Milton Security and Gabriella Grane at the Security Police briefed us on the situation,” one said.
They were aware that a man wearing a cap and dark glasses had been snooping around the property and that they had to be on their guard. Therefore they turned down the offer of a cup of hot tea in the kitchen. They wanted to check out the house and Balder thought that sounded perfectly professional and sensible. In other respects they did not make a very positive impression, but then he did not get an overwhelmingly negative impression either. He had put their numbers into his mobile and gone back to bed to be with August, who was sleeping, curled up, his green earplugs still in place.
But of course Balder had not been able to fall asleep again. He was listening for noises out there in the storm and eventually he sat up in bed. He had to do something, or he would go mad. He checked his mobile. He had two messages from Linus Brandell, who sounded bad-tempered and defensive all at the same time. At first Balder felt like hanging up. But then he caught a couple of things which were interesting after all. Linus had spoken to Mikael Blomkvist at Millennium magazine and now Blomkvist wanted to get in touch, and at that Balder began to think. Mikael Blomkvist, he muttered.
Is he to be my link with the outside world?
Balder knew very little about Swedish journalists. But he did know who Blomkvist was, and was aware of his reputation as someone who always went right to the heart of his stories, never yielding to pressure. That in itself did not necessarily make him the right man for the job — plus, somehow Balder seemed to recall hearing other less flattering things — so he called Gabriella Grane again. She knew just about everything there was to know about the media scene and had said that she would be staying up late.
“Hello,” she answered right away. “I was about to get in touch. I’m just looking at that man on the C.C.T.V. We really ought to move you now, you know.”
“But my God, Gabriella, the police are here — finally. They’re sitting right outside the front door.”
“There’s no reason to suppose that the man will come through the front door.”
“Why would he come at all? The man at Milton said he looked like an old junkie.”
“I’m not so sure about that. He’s carrying some sort of box, something technical. We should play this safe.”
Balder glanced at August lying next to him.
“I’m quite happy to move tomorrow. That might help my nerves. But I’m not going anywhere tonight — your policemen seem professional, professional enough at any rate.”
“If you’re going to be stubborn about this I’ll see to it that Flinck and Blom make themselves conspicuous and cover the entire property.”
“Fine, but that’s not why I’m calling. You said I ought to go public, remember?”
“Well... yes... That’s not the kind of advice you would expect from the Security Police, is it? I still think it would be a good idea, but first I’d like you to tell us what you know. I’m feeling a little apprehensive about this story.”
“In that case let’s talk tomorrow morning, when we’ve had a good sleep. But one thing, what do you think of Mikael Blomkvist at Millennium? Could he be the right sort of person to talk to?”
Grane gave a laugh. “If you want my colleagues to have an apoplectic fit, then definitely talk to him.”
“Is it as bad as that?”
“At Säpo people avoid him like the plague. If you find Blomkvist on your doorstep, then you know your whole year is shot, they say. Everybody here, including Helena Kraft, would advise against it in the strongest terms.”
“But it’s you I’m asking.”
“Well, my answer is that your reasoning is sound. He’s a damn fine journalist.”
“Hasn’t he also come in for some criticism?”
“For sure, people have been saying that he’s past his prime and that his writing isn’t positive or upbeat enough, or whatever. But he’s an old-fashioned investigative reporter of the highest calibre. Do you have his contact details?”
“My ex-assistant gave them to me.”
“Good, great. But before you get in touch with him, you must first tell us what you have. Do you promise?”
“I promise, Gabriella. Now I’m going to sleep for a few hours.”
“Do that, and I’ll keep in touch with Flinck and Blom and arrange a safe house for you first thing in the morning.”
After he had hung up he tried again to get some rest. But it proved as impossible this time as before. The storm made him increasingly restless and worried. It felt as if something evil was travelling across the sea towards him, and he could not help listening anxiously for any unusual sounds.
It was true that he had promised Grane he would talk to her first. But he could not wait — everything he had kept bottled up for so long was throbbing to get out. He knew it was irrational; nothing could be that urgent. It was the middle of the night and, regardless of what Grane had said, he was by any reckoning safer than he had been for a long time. He had police protection and a first-rate security system. But that did not help. He was agitated, and so he got out the number Linus had given him and dialled it. But of course Blomkvist did not answer.
Why would he? It was far too late, and Balder left a voice message instead in a slightly forced, whispered voice so as not to wake August. Then he got up and put on his bedside light. On the bookshelf by the bed there was some literature which had nothing to do with his work, and both absent-minded and worried he flicked through an old novel by Stephen King, Pet Sematary. But that made him think even more about evil figures travelling through the night. For a long time he just stood there with the book in his hand — then he felt a stab of apprehension, which he might have dismissed as nonsense in broad daylight but which now seemed totally plausible. He had a sudden urge to speak to Farah or better still Steven Warburton in Los Angeles, who would be certain to be awake, and while imagining all sorts of unpleasant scenarios, he looked out to sea and the night and the restless clouds scudding across the sky. At that moment his mobile rang, as if it had heard his prayer. But it was neither Farah nor Warburton.
“My name is Mikael Blomkvist,” the voice said. “You’ve been looking for me.”
“That’s right. I’m sorry to have called so late.”
“No problem. I was awake anyway.”
“Can you talk now?”
“Absolutely, I was in fact just answering a message from a person whom I think we both know. Lisbeth Salander.”
“Who?”
“Sorry, maybe I’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I thought you had hired her to go through your computers and trace a suspected data breach.”
Balder laughed. “Yes, my God, she’s a strange girl, that one,” he said. “But she never told me her surname, even though we had a lot of contact for a while. I assumed she had her reasons, and I never pushed her. I met her at one of my lectures at the Royal Institute of Technology. I’d be happy to tell you about it; it was pretty astonishing. But what I meant to ask was... well, you’ll probably think it’s a crazy idea.”