Authors Note/Edit: Hello again! Just wanted to take a quick moment to thank users "bhj" and "Erik" for bringing a couple of inconsistencies to my attention. You comments have not gone unnoticed! I will do my best to correct and/or explain these oversights in coming chapters. However, regarding my mistake concerning Isabella Vanger... Unfortunately, I believe it is a bit late to go back and change that now. Thank you again for bringing these things to my attention, and I hope you all enjoy the story, regardless. :)
~TruthIsOutThere
Blomkvist returned to Hedestad to find Salander perched on the foot of her bed, typing frantically on her Macbook. She hardly acknowledged his presence as he crossed the threshold, though her eyes grew narrow as she stared at the screen. Whatever she was working on clearly required her full attention.
Blomkvist shrugged out of his coat and strode over to her side. He put his glasses on and squinted at her computer screen, trying to make sense of whatever it was she was working on. He was still having trouble processing the information she gave him over the phone. Something about playing cards, and poker? None of it made sense, in his mind. Things were made even more confusing when Salander brought up the name Tish Solovyov. Of course, it made perfect sense now that he thought about it. Salander probably knew more about Tish than Blomkvist could ever learn from a thirty-minute meeting at a café. She was a brilliant hacker who had devoted several years of her life to running extensive background-checks on some of the most prominent and powerful people in all of Sweden. Finding out information was easy for Salander, and it frequently came in handy for her, as well.
Of course, this brought along it's own set of irritations. For instance, there were periods of time— like now— when Blomkvist knew something was up, and felt hopelessly out of the loop. It was borderline infuriating, especially given the fact that normally, as a journalist, it was his job to dig up details.
Salander closed her laptop and climbed off of the bed.
"Well?" Blomkvist asked, unusually uptight. He followed her out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. "Have you found anything?" In all honesty, he still wasn't entirely sure what she was meant to be looking for, but something about this entire situation just set him on edge.
Salander gave him a hard look. Blomkvist knew full-well that she preferred to work uninterrupted. She absolutely loathed being grilled for information. The way she saw it, her work was her business. Blomkvist was simply too nervous to tolerate that now.
"Listen," he began, running a hand through his hair. "Tish Solovyov is my daughter's flat mate." He shook his head, feeling increasingly distraught. "If she's involved in something bad, you have to give me a chance to warn Pernilla. You have to let me know."
Salander looked up at him again. Something had changed in her gaze. She remained rigid, and straight-faced as always, but there was a touch of acceptance in her expression, as if prying into her work out of concern for his own daughter was a forgivable offense. "Solovyov played poker with Larissa Mikhailovich in high school," Salander said, preparing two open sandwiches for herself. She looked up at Blomkvist for a split second, then down again. "Nadia Ivansson told me to look into Mikhailovich. That's all I know." She shrugged.
"Well…" Blomkvist breathed. "I guess there's no sure cause for alarm, then?" he asked, more to himself than to Salander. Nevertheless, she shrugged again and carried her plate of food out into the sitting room. She reached for her laptop, and resumed her work.
There was a long silence. Blomkvist's mind was still racing.
"What's your email password?" Salander asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Blomkvist stared at her, taken aback.
"You have to ask?" he wondered, busying himself by reheating a cup of coffee.
"No," Salander said, flatly. "I don't have to ask." She looked back down at her computer screen.
Blomkvist realized too late that this was Salander's best attempt at courtesy. She was trying to be conscious. He gave her the password straight away, though he knew she had already cracked it on her own.
"What are you doing?" Blomkvist asked, peering over her shoulder. She was composing a message as he spoke. "Are you sending something?" He rubbed his brow, feeling too exhausted to keep up with any of this.
"You'll need to meet Tish Solovyov again," Salander explained. "She trusts you. You can ask questions."
"Wait." Blomkvist reached out and closed the laptop, causing Salander to jolt backwards in surprise. She gave him an annoyed look.
"Say Tish is involved in something," Blomkvist says. "If she knows we're on to her, we're done for."
Salander reopened her laptop. She chewed on her thumb and stared contemplatively at the open email document.
"What exactly did Nadia tell you again?" Blomkvist asked, pacing the room. "Start at the beginning."
It took a while for Salander to answer.
"Nadia told me to research a Larissa Mikhailovich," she said, for what felt like the millionth time that evening. "I couldn't find much, except that she was a poker player, and she knew your friend." Salander raised her eyebrows, and almost leered at the term. She opened a new document and began typing up a string of code Blomkvist couldn't even begin to decipher.
"We won't know anything about Mikhailovich unless we talk to people who know her," Salander said.
"Couldn't we just speak to her directly?" Blomkvist offered. "I mean, how hard could she be to find?"
Salander shook her head. "Hard," she said. "She has no address listed. She's not in registry, because she's not a Swedish citizen. I could find her, but it would take too much time."
"So she's hidden?" Blomkvist asked, feeling nervous again.
"She's covered her tracks," Salander said, staring intently at the screen.
"I can't ask Tish anything now," Blomkvist said. "It's too risky. We don't even know if this woman has done anything illegal, for Christ's sake! She's got a fourteen-year-old girl riled up. That can't take much!" Rationally, Blomkvist knew his excuses were pointless. Still, he could never bring himself to put his daughter at risk. Not for this case, and not for anything.
Thankfully, Salander seemed to understand. She nodded slowly, as if in agreement.
"You told me Mikhailovich was traveling all around Scandinavia playing tournaments in high school," Blomkvist recounted, hoping to make sense of this out loud. "She spent a lot of time in Norway. That's where she probably met Julien Ivansson, which is probablyhow she knowns Nadia." He let out a long sigh. "So what now? You say Nadia's not talking," he grumbled. "What about Julien? Maybe he knows what the hell is going on here."
Salander shook her head, and lit a cigarette. "Julien Ivansson is completely oblivious to all of this."
"How do you know?" Blomkvist asked.
"I overheard him at Susanne's the other night, when he first arrived," she explained. "He was as confused by the whole card phenomenon as anyone else."
"He could have been lying," Blomkvist argued.
"Maybe," Salander said, eyes still locked on her computer screen. "But I don't think so."
"So what's going on here, Lisbeth?" Blomkvist asked, alarmed. "Why is girl in a panic, and what does it have to do with my daughter's flat mate, or this… Mikhailovich, for that matter?" he demanded. "It doesn't add up!" Blomkvist couldn't shake his sense of terror. This entire case was far too close to home. It reminded him of his early days at Millennium, when he had focused primarily on political exposés. He remembered vividly, the feeling of being victimized by his own work. Back then, he received more hate mail than support. He always had to watch his back. Now here he was again, on the verge of reentering that same predicament. Only this time it was Pernilla he had to worry about.
Salander whipped her head around, as if she were about to tell him off for bothering her— she probably was. The moment she gauged the look of true disparity on his face, though, her hard scowl transformed into a sort of unreadable frown.
"Tell Pernilla to leave home if you're so worried," she said, turning back to her computer. "Pay for her to go on vacation."
"And tell her what?" Blomkvist asked, frustrated.
"Make up something," Salander spat. "You're a writer. Tell a story."
"I'm a journalist. I'm meant to tell the truth," Blomkvist argued.
"Then do it," Salander muttered. "If getting your daughter out of Umeå is what it takes to give you peace of mind so you can speak to Solovyov, do it. Expose the truth."
Blomkvist nodded slowly, leaning on the back of the couch for support.
"You're right…" he breathed. "She can't stay where she is. This is all too suspicious."
"So call her." Salander pointed at his mobile, resting beside her left foot, on the coffee table.
"She'll be at school now," Blomkvist sighed. "I'll call her tonight. Then I'll send Tish an email. I'll let her know we need to meet again." He tried his best to calm himself, though nothing seemed to be working.
Salander let her head loll back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling.
"What am I supposed to do until then?" she asked, bordely.
"I guess we just wait," Blomkvist replied.
Salander picked her head up, glanced at Blomkvist, took a long drag on her cigarette, and offered it to him. When he declined, she stood up abruptly, and tugged her t-shirt off, casting it aside. Blomkvist watched in surprise as she crossed the room, moving towards him. He didn't protest as she led him into the bedroom. Frankly, this came as a welcome distraction.
Once they found themselves in bed, something unusual caught Blomkvist's attention. He reached and tentatively touched Salander's hair.
"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.
Blomkvist held up a tiny leaf. He gave her a faint smile, as she tugged her jeans off.
"Did you go for a walk recently?" he asked.
Salander frowned. "No."
Blomkvist shrugged as she crawled into bed next to him. She kissed him once, but his mind was still racing.
"You never did tell me what happened to you last night," he said, when they broke apart for only a split second. Salander hardly seemed interested in recounting the tale. She kissed him again and pushed him down against the mattress.
"Later," she grumbled, preoccupied.
At five 'o' clock, Blomkvist got out of bed to call his daughter.
"Want anything?" he asked, gazing at Salander who lay resting, entangled in the bed sheets.
"Got a light?" she asked, holding an unlit cigarette between her lips. Blomkvist nodded and retrieved his lighter from the pocket of his discarded jacket. He lit her up quickly and left the room, closing the door behind him to seal off the noise.
It occurred to him then that he had absolutely no idea how to go about this. This was the burden of being an inactive parent. He kicked himself for it every day. Speaking to Pernilla was odd enough as it was, but that just felt like too much.
Blomkvist shook his head and dialed his daughter's number. Part of him hoped he would reach only her voicemail. At this point, it would be much easier to explain the situation to a machine. Of course, nothing could be answered after the third ring.
"Hello?" Blomkvist found the sound of her voice simultaneously daunting and reassuring as he wracked his brains for some kind of explanation.
"Nilla, hi," he began.
"Dad?" She sounded surprised. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," Blomkvist said, pacing the length of the sitting room. "Everything's fine. How are you?"
"How am I?" Pernilla asked. "Dad, you never call. I always thought you preferred email." She laughed.
"I— I do," Blomkvist said, quickly. "It's just…" He paused, trying desperately to think of the best way to phrase this. A loud noise distracted him.
"Pernilla, where are you exactly?"
"I'm on the subway. On my way home from school," Pernilla said. "Dad, is there something wrong?" she asked, again.
"Uh. No, no," Blomkvist muttered. "I just needed to talk to you about something."
"Okay, so talk," she laughed. "You're scaring me. Are you sure you're alright?"
"Me? I'm fine," Blomkvist said. "Listen, something's come up with… work." He cast a glance out the large bay window. "It's nothing you need to worry about but—"
"— But what?" Pernilla asked, cutting him off.
"Nilla, do you remember when you were young, and I wrote politics pieces for Millennium?"
"Of course I do," Pernilla laughed. "I showed some of them to Tish, actually. She told me the two of you met. It was really nice of you to agree to read her article."
"Yes. It was no trouble," Blomkvist breathed. "It was good seeing her." He shook his head. "Anyway, do you remember when the articles used to come out… how we would sometimes… tighten security around the house?" He struggled to find the right words. "Remember when your mother and I blew all of our savings on that security system?" He shook his head again. "How could you remember? You were no more than two years old."
"Dad…" Pernilla began, apprehensive. "What is this about?"
Blomkvist cleared his throat, and ran a hand through his hair.
"I think it might be best if you leave town for a few days, Nilla," he said, as gently as possible. "There's nothing to be alarmed about, its just… work has become very serious, all of a sudden."
"What do you mean?" Pernilla sounded concerned. "Dad, what are you talking about? What are you writing?"
Writing? Blomkvist almost laughed aloud. Nilla thought he was writing something, for Millennium. If only! She really didn't know the first of it.
"It's nothing too dramatic, I promise," Blomkvist said. "I just don't want anything I say being traced back to you."
Pernilla went silent.
"Have you talked to mom?" she asked.
"About you leaving town? No. I would pay for it of course." Blomkvist rubbed his temples.
"But is she in danger?" Pernilla asked. "If whoever-you're-writing-about can find your daughter, surely they can find your ex-wife as well."
Blomkvist sighed. Nilla always was remarkably pragmatic. She had no option but to be a realist for the most part. This was something she had inherited from both of her parents.
"I don't think these people are interested in bothering your mother," Blomkvist said. "This isn't that kind of group."
"So you're saying I'm the target?" Pernilla asked. "Only me?"
Blomkvist immediately regretted failing to come up with a proper alibi beforehand. If only he had some kind of cover story to feed her. A mock-article, or something. Pernilla was smart. Blomkvist knew he couldn't fool her for long. Eventually she'd see through the bullshit, and he'd be forced to explain the real reason he wanted her out of town.
Your flat mate is possibly involved in something suspicious. I don't know what, but I want to find out. And I don't want you falling victim to my search. That would not go over well. He had to get her out of Umeå.
On the other hand, he didn't want to alarm her.
"Listen, Nilla, there's nothing to be afraid of," he began. "I just want to play it safe. Just this once, promise me you'll get out of town. Go home and pack your things. Take a vacation."
"I'm in school, dad. I can't just drop everything," Pernilla pointed out.
"This time you can," Blomkvist said, sternly. This time, it was worth it.
There was a long silence.
"Dad, are you in trouble?" Pernilla asked, her voice was almost fearful. Blomkvist felt a stab of sympathy for his daughter.
"No, Nilla," he said. Then he shook his head. He didn't want to be a liar. "I'm not really sure."
"Does this have something to do with her?" Pernilla asked.
"Who?"
"Lisbeth Salander," Pernilla hissed. Blomkvist's eyes snapped open.
"It's all over the papers, you know," Nilla said, sounding resigned. "It's been a slow news week. There is a lot of intrigue. People want to know why she's in Hedeby. Please don't get in over your head, dad." There was genuine concern in her voice. "Every time you get involved in once of her cases, things get dangerous. Too dangerous. I worry."
Blomkvist felt overwhelmingly guilty. Fathers, he thought, were not meant to scare their daughter's with their jobs.
"This has nothing to do with Lisbeth," he said, which was mostly true. "This is something different entirely."
"But it's still dangerous," Pernilla said.
"Maybe," Blomkvist admitted.
"Maybe," Nilla repeated.
There was a short silence.
"Listen, all I need is for you to leave town. Just for a few days," Blomkvist said, his voice almost pleading. "I won't be able to sleep at night unless I know you've removed yourself from all of this."
"What is all of this, exactly?" Nilla asked. "What are you looking into, dad?"
Blomkvist bit his lip, conflicted. "I can't say," he muttered, finally. "Just promise me you won't stay in Umeå. I'll wire you some money. You can go wherever you'd like. Leave the country if you want to. Go someplace warm."
Pernilla paused. "What will I tell mom?" she asked, hesitantly.
"Tell her you need a mental health break," Blomkvist said. He knew this was a poor answer. Monica Abrahamsson was not one for excuses. She would not sit by quietly while her daughter skipped town.
"I'll— I'll talk to her," he stammered, mentally adding this new task to his to-do list.
Pernilla sighed.
"I'll leave if you want me to," she said, finally. She didn't sound happy, but Blomkvist couldn't help but feel immensely relieved. "But dad?" she asked.
"Hm?"
"Don't get hurt," she said. There was a strong, commanding quality to her voice, and Blomkvist knew this was not a request, but an order.
Salander could hear Blomkvist speaking softly into the telephone as she headed for the shower. Tonight, though, she had no interest in eavesdropping. She closed the bathroom door behind her and turned the shower on high, checking the windowsill for any kind of message. Nothing tonight. Salander frowned, realizing Nadia probably wouldn't leave any more cards now that she had been confronted. She would have to figure this out on her own. And she would start with Larissa Mikhailovich.
As the steam rose around her, Salander thought back to the very first clue she had received— the card inside Nadia Ivansson's red glove. She recalled the letters, keeping a weary eye on the window the entire time, just in case. C-F-D-K-E-K-W-J-J. The code seemed pointless to her, but Nadia was insistent, so it had to mean something.
Salander tried to recall anything that may have given Nadia away. She thought back to the telescope in Henrik Vanger's office. The coordinates left it pointing right at Isabella's doorstep. She never could figure out why, but suddenly, it was clear to her.
Henrik was on to her, too, Salander realized. His desk was full of playing cards, just like the Nadia's— probably just like the one's Larissa Mikhailovich used to play poker.
Salander shut off the water. She wrapped a towel around her torso and dried herself before dressing hastily. She suddenly felt the strong urge to search through Henrik office once again. This was the right move. She was confident.
Fucking Vangers, she thought, shaking her head. Always knowing more than they let on…
Salander slipped out into the sitting room, just as Blomkvist hung up the phone. She headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" Blomkvist asked, looking a little alarmed.
Salander didn't feel compelled to stay and chat. She pulled the door closed behind her, and headed for Henrik's study, down the hall.
Inside, the study, the lights were out, and the shades were drawn. Even in complete dark, Salander could tell someone had already beaten her to this place. Every piece of furniture stood out in stark contrast, covered in an oversized, white sheet. When she finally found the light switch, Salander paced over to the desk and tugged at the drawer where she had seen the cards. It was empty. Someone had cleared this place out, completely.
Salander swore under her breath. She surveyed the room once more, this time in the light. Almost everything had been removed from the room. Henrik's telescope was gone, as was his computer. Salander searched through the four remaining desk drawers, and found nothing. She left the room quickly and headed downstairs to find Anna.
The ground floor of the Vanger Estate was unsettlingly quiet. Salander had little faith in silence, especially here. She recalled the soundless depths of Martin Vanger's basement, where she had freed Blomkvist the last time they came up here. She kept her eyes open as she wandered into the next room.
Salander found Anna in the kitchen, hunched over the sink as she scrubbed at a glass vase. She paused momentarily in the doorway, watching the woman clean in a state close to frenzy.
"Where are Henrik's things?" Salander asked, making Anna jump.
The woman stared at her, wide-eyed, barely clinging to the vase in her trembling hands.
"Günnar moved them out to the guest house this morning," she said, her voice hardly audible. "Harriet said something about clearing the space before the funeral…"
Salander glanced out the window at the rapidly darkening sky. She still had time to run out to the guesthouse, but this time she was not going unarmed. She turned her attention back to Anna.
"Have you ever heard the name Larissa Mikhailovich?" she asked.
Anna opened her mouth slightly, then shook her head.
"I— I don't know who that is."
Salander narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive," Anna said. "Henrik didn't always speak to me about his acquaintances. He could be a very private man when he wanted to be."
Salander nodded. She was about to leave when Anna spoke up again.
"Froken Salander?" she asked. "You should talk to Julien Ivansson. Larissa Mikhailovich… It sounds like a Russian name." She nodded frantically, and Salander got the impression that she was absolutely terrified of something. But what?
"Why is that important?" Salander asked.
"Julien…" Anna cleared her throat, and glanced around, as if she was afraid of being overhead. "Julien worked at a Russian establishment in Norway. Some kind of… casino, or something. It could be completely irrelevant. I don't know." She gave a nervous shrug. "But if this is somehow connected to Henrik, it might be connected to him. They wrote back and fourth constantly, you know." Salander raised her eyebrows. She did not know this.
"Henrik was worried sick about Nadia," Anna continued. "He and Julien bonded over that. They became very close friends." She lowered her voice. "Between you and, I think Henrik was worried for Julien too. Sometimes he'd say things…" she trailed off, looking away.
"What kind of things?" Salander pressed.
Anna waved her off. "Probably nothing," she said. "He was on so many painkillers at the time, nothing he said was particularly coherent."
"But he said something about Julien Ivansson," Salander said.
"Oh, he said lots of things."
"Like what?"
Anna gazed out the window, skillfully avoiding Salander's gaze. "Probably nothing," she repeated, quietly. Then she spoke up again. "Talk to Julien, Froken Salander. I don't know him well, but you might find him useful."
Salander opened her mouth to say more, but Anna gave her a forlorn look.
"I have to get back to work," Anna said, quietly. "I'm sorry I can't help you any further."
Salander watched as the woman went back to cleaning vases over the sink. She paused for a moment, and then walked back upstairs to get her taser, and leave.
Up in the guest quarters, Salander found Blomkvist sitting beside the window, smoking and typing something up on his laptop.
"Where did you run off to?" he asked, when she walked in.
"I spoke to Anna," Salander grumbled, rummaging through her things. She found her taser, tested the charge, and tucked it in her back pocket.
"Going out?" Blomkvist asked.
Salander glared at him, put off by his inquisition. He held up his hands in surrender.
"I'm going down to the guest house," Salander said. "Some things of Henrik's are locked up there."
"And you think they'll be helpful in figuring this out?" Blomkvist took a sip out of his coffee mug.
"Maybe." Salander shrugged, putting on her coat. "Maybe not."
Blomkvist stubbed out his cigarette and set his laptop aside.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his tone surprisingly pleasant. "I just booked Pernilla's ticket to France, and now I think I could stand to stretch my legs for a bit."
Salander shrugged— her version of an okay. She lit her a cigarette and gazed out the window while she waited for him to find his jacket.
"Oh Lisbeth?" Blomkvist called, reemerging from his bedroom, coat in hand. "I forgot to show you this. I found it this morning by the lake."
Salander spun to face him, her curiosity piqued.
"It's a glove," Blomkvist began. "At first, I actually thought it belonged to you, but then…" He turned the glove over in his hand, exposing a faint crest of some sort.
"I showed this to Tish Solovyov," he explained. "She recognized the emblem. She says it came from a local high school."
"A high school?" Salander repeated, confused. She held the glove up to the light, examining it.
"Yes. A school in Litenstad. Litenstad Ryska Högstadieskola or something. Strangely enough, it's actually her alma mater."
Salander stared at him, astonished.
"Why didn't you mention before?"
Blomkvist shrugged. "I wrote it off as coincidence, and then I forgot," he said. "Listen, Lisbeth, it's probably meaningless. It's a faded, old glove I found down by the lake. It could have been there for years, for all I know!"
Salander was already distracted by another oddity.
"What's this?" she asked, pointing to some kind of bizarre stitching along the seam.
"It's Russian," Blomkvist said. "Tish told me what it meant. It's some kind of initialism. C-F-D, maybe?"
"It's not C-F-D, its S-F-D," Salander corrected.
"I'm sure Tish said C-F-D," Blomkvist pressed.
"Then she played you," Salander snapped. "There is no 'C' in the Cyrillic alphabet. This—" she jabbed her finger at the first symbol. "— Is an 'S'."
Blomkvist's eyes went wide. "Why would she lie about that?"
"She's covering her tracks, too," Salander said, shaking her head. "She doesn't want you to know something. If Tish went to school here, so did Mikhailovich. There's some kind of connection, we're just not seeing it!"
"Yes, but what does S-F-D mean?" Blomkvist asked. "We still have no idea what we're looking for."
"Could be initials," Salander offered.
"Tish suggested that," Blomkvist said.
"Then it's probably not initials," Salander said, giving him a thoughtful look. "She's trying to lead us away from piecing this together. And she's not a good liar, apparently."
Blomkvist reached back into his coat pocket and retrieved a small stack of paper.
"She gave this to me," he said, before adding, "Tish Solovyov," for clarity.
"What is it?" Salander asked.
"It's an article she wrote," he explained. "I haven't read it yet. But it could mean something."
Salander eyed the paper quickly.
"Let me see it when you're done," she said. She glanced out the window again. "We're running out of light," she said. "I'm leaving." She zipped up her coat. "
Blomkvist nodded in agreement, and went to set his things down on the coffee table.
"Wait," Salander said. She picked up the glove and tucked it in her own pocket. "Someone's going around snatching up evidence." She frowned. "It's probably a bad idea to let this out of your sight."
"So you definitely think it means something, then?" Blomkvist asked. "The glove, I mean."
"I know it means something," Salander said, under her breath.
"How?" Blomkvist pressed.
Salander gave him a look as they made their way down the stairs and into the foyer.
"Last night a teenage boy tried to drown me down by the lake," she explained. "I didn't get a good look at what he was wearing," she said. "But I bet you anything he's a student of Litenstad Ryska Högstadieskola. I bet you anything that glove belonged to him."