“I’ll get them for you. Just wait a moment.” When Palmgren came back moments later he said, “So you’re sure that Lisbeth and the boy are safely tucked away somewhere?”
“I’m sure,” Blomkvist said. At least I hope I am, he thought. He stood up and embraced Palmgren.
Out on Liljeholmstorget the storm tore into him again. He pulled his coat close around him and thought of Salander and her sister, and for some reason also of Andrei Zander.
He decided to call him to find out how he was getting on with his story on the art dealer. But Zander never picked up.
Chapter 24
Zander had called Blomkvist because he had changed his mind. Of course he wanted to go out for a beer. How could he not have taken him up on the offer? Blomkvist was his idol and the very reason he had gone in for journalism. But once he dialled the number he felt embarrassed and hung up. Maybe Blomkvist had found something better to do. Zander did not like disturbing people unnecessarily, and least of all Blomkvist.
Instead he worked on. But however hard he tried, he got nowhere. The words just would not come out right and after about an hour he decided to take a walk, and so he tidied his desk and checked once again that he had deleted every word on the encrypted link. Then he said goodbye to Emil Grandén, the only other person left in the office.
Grandén was thirty-six and had worked at both T.V.4’s “Cold Facts” and Svenska Morgon-Posten. Last year he had been awarded the Stora Journalist prize for Investigative Reporter of the Year. But Zander thought — even though he tried not to — that Grandén was conceited and overbearing, at least towards a young temp like him.
“Going out for a bit,” Zander said.
Grandén looked at him as if there was something he had forgotten to say. Then he uttered in a bored tone, “O.K.”
Zander felt miserable. It may only have been Grandén’s arrogant attitude, but it was more likely because of the article about the art dealer. Why was he finding it so difficult? Presumably because all he wanted to do was help Blomkvist with the Balder story. Everything else felt secondary. But he was also spineless, wasn’t he? Why had he not let Blomkvist take a look at what he had written?
No-one could raise the level of a story like Blomkvist could, with just a few light pen strokes or deletions. Never mind. Tomorrow he would see the story with fresh eyes and then Blomkvist could read it, however bad it might be. Zander closed the door to the office and walked out towards the lift. Further down the stairs a drama was unfolding. At first he could not make out what was going on, but there was a scrawny, hollow-eyed figure molesting a beautiful young woman. Zander froze — he had always loathed violence, ever since his parents had been killed in Sarajevo. He hated fights. But his self-respect was at stake. It was one thing to run away for your own sake, but quite another to leave a fellow human being in danger, and so he rushed down the stairs yelling, “Stop, let her go!”
At first that seemed like a fatal mistake — the hollow-eyed man pulled out a knife and muttered some threat in English. Zander’s legs nearly gave way, yet he managed to muster the last remnants of his courage and spat back, like something from a B-movie, “Hey, get lost! If you don’t, you’ll regret it.” After a few seconds of posturing, the man took off with his tail between his legs. Zander and the woman were left alone in the stairwell, and that too was like a scene from a film.
At first the woman was shaken and shy. She spoke so softly that Zander had to lean in close to hear what she was saying, and it took a while before he understood what had happened. The woman had been living in a marriage from hell, she said, and even though she was now divorced and living with a protected identity her ex-husband had managed to track her down and send some stooge to harass her.
“That’s the second time that foul man has thrown himself at me today,” she said.
“Why were you up here?”
“I tried to get away and ran in, but it didn’t help. I can’t thank you enough.”
“It was nothing.”
“I’m so fed up with nasty men,” she said.
“I’m a nice man,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly, and that made him feel pathetic. He was not in the least bit surprised that the woman did not answer but looked down at the stairs in embarrassment.
He felt ashamed of such a cheap reply. But then, just as he thought he had been rejected, she raised her head and gave him a careful smile.
“I think you really might be. My name’s Linda.”
“I’m Andrei.”
“Nice to meet you, Andrei, and thank you again.”
“Thank you too.”
“What for?”
“For...”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He could feel his heart beating, his mouth was dry. He looked down the staircase.
“Yes, Andrei?” she said.
“Would you like me to walk you home?”
He regretted saying that too.
He was afraid it would be misinterpreted. But instead she gave him another of her enchanting, hesitant smiles, and said that she would feel safe with him by her side, so they went out into the street and down towards Slussen. She told him how she had been living more or less locked up in a big house in Djursholm. He said that he understood — he had written a series of articles on violence against women.
“Are you a journalist?” she said.
“I work at Millennium.”
“Wow,” she said. “Is that for real? I’m a huge fan of that magazine.”
“It’s done a lot of good things,” he said shyly.
“It really has,” she said. “A while ago I read a wonderful article about an Iraqi who had been wounded in the war and got sacked from his job as a cleaner at some restaurant in the city. He was left completely destitute. Today he’s the owner of a whole chain of restaurants. I cried when I read it; it was so beautifully written and inspiring.”
“I wrote that piece,” he said.
“Are you joking?” she said. “It was fantastic.”
Zander was not exactly spoiled when it came to praise for his journalistic efforts, especially from unknown women. Whenever Millennium was mentioned, people wanted to talk about Mikael Blomkvist, and Zander did not object to that. But secretly he dreamed of recognition for himself too, and now this beautiful Linda had praised him without even meaning to.
It made him so happy and proud that he plucked up the courage to suggest a drink at Papagallo, since they were just passing. To his delight she said, “What a good idea!” so they went into the restaurant, Zander’s heart pounding. He tried to avoid looking into her eyes.
Those eyes had knocked him off his feet and he could not believe this was really happening. They sat down at a table not far from the bar and Linda tentatively put out her hand. As he took it he smiled and mumbled something, hardly aware of what he was saying.
He looked down at his mobile — Grandén was calling. To his own surprise he ignored it and turned off his ringer. For once the magazine would have to wait. He just wanted to gaze into Linda’s face, to drown in it. She was so beautiful that it felt like a punch to the stomach, yet she seemed so fragile, like a wounded bird.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt you,” he said.
“It happens all the time.”
Perhaps he could understand it after all. A woman like her probably attracted psychopaths. No-one else would dare ask her out. Most men would just shrivel up and feel inferior.
“It’s so nice to be sitting here with you,” he said.
“It’s so nice to be sitting here with you,” she retorted, gently stroking his hand. They each ordered a glass of red wine and started to talk, they had so much to say, and he didn’t notice his mobile vibrating in his pocket, not once but twice, which is how he came to ignore a call from Blomkvist for the first time in his life.