Chapter 14

So here's chapter 14! I'm finally getting better and healing from my writer's block! Please leave a review!

February 17th – 20th

"So once again, Lisbeth is finding herself at another set of crossroads." Palmgren stared down at the table as he spoke. "She'll do anything to protect you, Mikael. Now she has to decide the best course of action to achieve that goal."

"And I'll do anything to keep her safe from herself. She's spent enough of her life within the walls of institutions. Another twenty years in a prison cell isn't the life she deserves."

"Neither is a life spent fearing for the lives of the ones you love." Palmgren stabbed a crooked finger into empty air. "Lisbeth would willingly lock herself into Kungsholmen if it meant you, Millennium, myself, and anyone she knows can live on peacefully. She's already left the country for what I suspect is to distance herself from anyone Camilla may use as a puppet or as an example. But pacifism is not in her nature. She can only stay away for so long just as her sister can only wait for so long. Whether we drag it out for months or years, the end will be the same."

"Then let's rewrite the ending to this. The police are fumbling in the dark as usual. They know nothing about Camilla. I know nothing."

Palmgren leaned back in his chair. While he would always remain steadfastedly in Lisbeth's corner, Blomkvist knew the older man was considering the consequences of any involvement in her affairs. Whatever side or outcome he may have personally rooted for, Palmgren chose his next words carefully.

"How do you know this is the right thing to do, Mikael?"

"What do you mean? Of course it is!"

"I don't doubt your heart being in the right place, Mikael. But can you deal with the possibility of causing more harm than good? Interference in something like this shouldn't be thought upon so rashly."

"I've had almost a month to think about this, Holger. The police being brought in is a painful compromise. Camilla would be locked up for life sentence without a doubt. But I might lose Lisbeth over it."

Palmgren nodded. "I see. Then in that case Camilla had only a single foster family for five years in Upplands-Vasby, an hour north of here."

"Just one? That's strange."

"That's what I thought. Now? Suspicious would be a the proper term for it."

Blomkvist made a face at Palmgren's cryptic statement.

"I only met Camilla once, in the ER after she and Lisbeth had beaten each other senseless. Lisbeth had broken Camilla's nose and cheekbone while Camilla managed to split her sister's lip open. Now, you're familiar with the laws regarding the medical treatment of a minor, yes?"

"A parent or guardian has to sign over consent."

"Exactly! I signed off for Lisbeth to have four stitches put in. We were there for maybe an hour, and yet Camilla, who'd sustained far worse, just got up and left before the police could arrive for questioning."

"I don't see the suspicion in that."

"In the case of a minor, again, a parent or guardian must be on hand for questioning. Not only was her foster family absent from the hospital when they surely would have been notified of her injuries, they were not there to press charges either. Lisbeth was entirely guilty of it; there were probably twenty witnesses when it happened. Looking back on that incident now, I'm certain the reason why no one showed up and Camilla left was-"

"They couldn't show up."

"And that's only half the story! You need to hear the rest! Two days after the incident, I called the secretary at the child services agency to get Camilla's foster parent's telephone number. I was completely ready to pay whatever medical expenses the girl had accrued on behalf of Lisbeth's right hook, but whenever I tried to get through to the family, the number had been disconnected. I go into work a week later to retrieve the file, the address they had given me had been empty and up for sale for three years. She lived with someone, but it wasn't the two people listed in her file."

"She was taken by Zalachenko."

"Without the word of the woman herself I doubt we'll ever be able to prove it, but mark my words that Camilla Salander wound up with her father. As long I live I will stand by that theory. And why wouldn't Zalachenko take in his younger daughter? The daughter, who according to Lisbeth, would always go and hug him before he left while conveniently denying all the savage beatings of her own mother? She was very, very bright in school. No doubt he could use that to his advantage when she got older."

"You're right about that. There's no way the police will ever figure that out. Not without a joint force between Sweden and Estonia, and Zalachenko's successors have been paying them off for years. She's been completely brainwashed since she was a little girl."

"The optimistic side of my brain, which I must admit has severely withered away since my stroke, says maybe Stockholm Syndrome. Realistically though, why should only one twin succumb to it? They had equal chance and opportunity to be the victim or the savior. Why did they split in different directions?"

"Because Camilla is a coward. She was saving her own hide, mother and sister be damned. And look where that got her? Daddy paid for her to go off to chemistry school as long as she came back home to cook meth and kill prostitutes that got out of line."

They sat out on the covered porch for another hour spent mostly in silence until Annika's green Volvo pulled up to the curb. Before Blomkvist left Palmgren retrieved his old case files from a spare room so Blomkvist could see the discrepancies for himself. The car hadn't even stopped moving when Blomkvist jumped out with the files tucked under his slung up arm, nearly running to his sister's home office.

He pulled up all sorts of registries and databases. The number, now in use by a Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson, had been unregistered from ninety-three to ninety-seven. Within the same time span, the address listed had also been lying vacant in the aftermath of a foreclosure the year prior.

Once more, there were going to be some serious questions to be answered when everything settled down. Either a gross oversight had occurred or yet another cover-up was to blame.

The sound of his two nieces moving around and laughing just outside the office doors signaled the imminent start of dinner. Almost as an afterthought in those moments before he would get up and join them, he opened up his Hotmail account in vain hope that Lisbeth had contacted him.

From: EBerger

Is it too late to say I'm sorry?

Blomkvist looked on in astonishment at the email before him. EBerger.

A week after the bombing, her house had gone on sale and was sold in two days. Her cellphone had been disconnected. In the span of nine days she'd managed to disappear just as efficiently as Lisbeth.

Twenty-two years of trust and friendship. Gone.

From: MBlomkvist

To: EBerger

What can I say, Erika? You crossed a line. Maybe this has been coming for a while and I just didn't see it until it was too late. You changed. I don't think we can go back to what we had if you continue keeping me in the dark about what's going on. What happened to trust?

From: EBerger

To: MBlomkvist

I understand that you think I don't trust you. I've kept a lot of things from you lately and I'm sorry about how we left things off at the hospital. If it's any consolation I felt like a sack of shit almost immediately afterwards.

I would have said something sooner but my computer crashed a couple weeks ago and I lost track of my phone at the airport when I left. I had to get away from it all and caught the first flight out of Stockholm the morning after the bombing.

Blomkvist frowned to himself. Something about the email's writing style was just…off. It was too straightforward and explanatory for Erika. He read over the email again and again in the darkness of his sister's office, trying to make sense the awkward message.

With a few keystrokes he brought up the departure board for Stockholm-Arlanda. The bombing happened on a Saturday, which means Berger had left on Sunday. At five after six that morning the first departure took on a four-hour flight to Malaga, Spain. He could find nothing remarkable about the moderately sized Spanish city that could possibly have held Berger's interest for the last two weeks. Again he found himself at dead end. Unless…

Lisbeth.

The idea was just as absurd as the email. Had she taken over Berger's account? It would be a small drop in the bucket compared to what he knew she was capable of.

There was only one way for him to know. He exited out of the airport website and stared at the email once more. Somehow he had to ask just the right question. He read through one last time, zeroing in on he hospital comment.

From: MBlomkvist

To: EBerger

I'm sorry to hear about that. Did you mean what you said back at the hospital?

From: EBerger

To: MBlomkvist

I meant every word. What happened at Millennium can't stop us. We need to send a clear message that this isn't going to shut us down. We have to stick to our guns here or we're nothing.

Camilla is as good as dead. I'm not backing down now.

Nothing new there. He'd long given up hoping she would change her mind. Now he could only hope that she would stay safe and under Bublanski's radar.

From: MBlomkvist

To: EBerger

That doesn't mean we need to start back up right this second. We took a critical hit last month. Things need time to settle down. The police are still combing through the building. It's not safe for us to go in yet.

Wait for everything to die down. Fiskargatan is still being investigated.

As he waited for her reply, his sister nudged the door slightly, peeking in. "Mikael?"

"In a second."

"Whatever you're doing can wait. Dinner. Now."

From: EBerger

To: MBlomkvist

I can find a new building.

I'll find a safe house. Or, Find a new Millennium. The message was too vague to be certain.

From: MBlomkvist

To: EBerger

We can look into that together. I don't want you doing all the work by yourself.

My brother-in-law's aunt has been pestering me about Lisbeth ever since I moved into my sister's house last week. I need a break. Can I come see you?

From: EBerger

To: MBlomkvist

It's late here. I'll think about it in the morning.

No.

The conversation now over, Blomkvist switched off his sister's desktop PC and climbed the stairs to younger niece's room, which had become his for the duration of his temporary stay. Thankfully she had no hard feelings about the move and had gracefully taken refuge in her older sister's room without a word.

A glance at the alarm clock on the end table said it was just past eleven at night.

By quarter after six he was up again, a new email sitting impatiently in his inbox.

From: EBerger

To: MBlomkvist

Remember a few years back when you had a wasp problem at Sandhamm? I have a up-and-coming journalist friend that has a massive nest hanging from their eaves. I don't remember how you said you got rid of them, but do you think you could give a few pointers to him?

From: MBlomkvist

To: EBerger

Does he live in Stockholm or out in your yuppie colony?

He heard the open and closing of the front door four times in a forty-five minute stretch as he sat in his sister's office between playing minesweeper while waiting for a reply to come. Now it was only him and Angelina left, but thankfully she never rose before eleven. He still had three and a half hour of peace and quiet to himself before the channel 29 "news" came on. He could almost swear that the volume level went up by ten clicks every day until Annika would change the station and the volume to something more neutral.

After getting five clicks into a third round of minesweeper, a reply popped up in his inbox.

From: EBerger

To: MBlomkvist

Aren't you the jokester? He lives near the university, so not close, but not very far either. He works at Syster and Bror on campus during the afternoon. You could meet him there tomorrow if you'd like.

From: MBlomkvist

To: EBerger

I'll drop in around three.

Half an hour before the mystery meeting was set to begin, Blomkvist stepped out of a cab in front of Syster and Bror. He hadn't stepped foot on the campus since the mid eighties, but the place remained virtually the same. Out of pure nostalgia he almost had the driver drop him off another three blocks down the street at the media studies office, but he want to stake the restaurant out before the meeting first.

Not knowing who to expect, he took a seat near the window and order a coffee. Based on the email Blomkvist was sure he was looking for a man. Based on the setting he would be either a university student or a young professional.

And if Blomkvist knew anything at all about Lisbeth's circle of associates, he was probably looking for someone carrying a laptop bag.

At quarter after three, a man in his mid twenties carrying a small leather laptop bag stepped off of a bus twenty meters away from the coffee shop. Despite the rain that had started around three, he continued to stand there by the bus sign, scanning the restaurant windows. When his eyes fell on Blomkvist, he nodded slightly before finally jogging up to the entrance.

The wooden chair across from Blomkvist scraped across the ground as the man took a seat, placing his bag across the back of the chair. He leaned forward onto his elbows, looking extremely amused.

"Kalle Blomkvist."

"That's my nickname," Blomkvist placed his paper cup down on the glass table, "What's yours?"

"Janne."

"Do you have something for me, Janne?"

"That I do," he said, picking up the bag from the ground and fishing around inside the front pocket. Blomkvist noted the size of the Mabook that looked to be inside of the main compartment. Definitely a student.

Finally he seemed to find what he was looking for, producing a small, black phone that he slid across the table. "Pre-paid phone. Fifty international minutes. Use it wisely and throw it away in two weeks. Wasp sent me a message about your situation."

"And what's my situation?"

"You're being watched by the police and Milton Security. You and all your closest friends and family are having your phones and emails monitored. Twice as hard to stay under the radar for whatever you're doing, but it's possible."

"I don't care about the police or Milton. It's Wasp's radar that I can't escape."

"Wasp is protecting you." He shrugged. "Or so Wasp says. You can never tell with the internet. Maybe they're really a sicko trying to kill you in some elaborate fashion."

"It's definitely protection, but not the warm and fuzzy kind." Blomkvist stood up and threw a handful of bills on the table as a tip. "Thanks for the phone."

"See you around, Kalle Blomkvist."

The rain stopped and Blomkvist hailed a cab. Just as it was pulling away from the curb he looked up at the restaurant to see Janne take out his laptop. For the half hour ride to Stakët, he examined the small flip phone. There was no carrier logo or any other identifying features, as if it had been created for the sole purpose it would now serve.

The black Milton car had moved three car lengths closer to the house when the cab pulled up. The guard must have changed when he had left.

It was a Tuesday, so no one would be home. Even Angelina was out at the senior playing bridge until eight. Blomkvist smiled. He had the house and the TV to himself for the first time since coming to Annika's house. He still had another hour before the girls would be home. Then Annika would come in an hour after that and Enrico wouldn't be home until after seven.

With not a sound or soul in the house, Blomkvist sprawled out across the living room couch and turned the phone on for the first time. The screen turned from black to white with three little dots flashing as it booted up. It was a relatively easy phone to use, which couldn't have been an accident. He vaguely wondered if it were also water and shock resistant.

Under voice messages there was a bolded "ONE" in all capital letters.

"One new message."

"Hey Kalle. You caught onto my emails quickly. Smart move. The longer I try to write like Berger the more likely I am to kill myself. Thanks for saving me the pain."

Blomkvist's jaw clamped shut. This was the first time he'd heard Lisbeth be so openly hostile to Erika. Although their partnership was almost definitely over, twenty-two years of friendship still left a mark and a willingness to defend what wasn't there anymore.

"Janne should have briefed you on the boring details. Fifty minutes, throw it out after two weeks, no known outgoing calls; all the stuff they say in the movies. Now it's time for you to learn how the phone works and what it's for. I've pre-programmed four numbers into the phone, all of them untraceable.

The first number is wired to a bank account in Zurich with twenty million kronor wired to it. I don't care how you use it, but a new Millennium building and apartment would be a good start. Call the number and then punch in the amount you need; it'll automatically transfer the money to another account you'll be receiving a card to in the mail soon. Try not to move more than thirty thousand at a time or else you'll attract suspicion."

Wennerström money. It was a small drop in the two and half billion she'd pulled from his account, but is was more money that he could ever dream of having control of. He could buy the entire city block that Millennium sat in with half that amount.

For all it was worth, he didn't want a single ore of it.

But for all it was worth, he wanted to know why Lisbeth had given it to him. Something more than just a new office for Millennium was on her mind.

"Second is Plague. Don't expect much from him without maxing out the Swiss account budget. He'll do things for less, but not for you.

Third is my assistant who you met to get the phone. He's the cheaper route, but not always the most reliable. He's more for legwork. Use him to move a sofa or tail someone; I don't care. Just leave any kind of computer work up to Plague.

The final number is basically a self-destruct. In two weeks, dial number four and then dump it somewhere, preferably in a deep body of water. Pull out the SIM card and cut it up with scissors first though.

No stupid shit from you in the meantime. I'm watching."

"End of message."

When the phone prompted him to replay, save, or delete the message, he hit save and pressed the phone to his lips. It felt good to hear her voice again.

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