It was up to Salander to decide how she wanted to proceed. But if he had been able to track down her apartment, sooner or later the police would do so too. He put the DVD in his bag.

Then he wrote Björck’s report. In 1991 it had been stamped top secret. It shed light on everything that had happened. It named Zalachenko and made clear Björck’s role, and together with the list of johns from Svensson’s computer it would give Björck some anxious hours facing Bublanski. And in light of the correspondence, Teleborian would find himself in deep shit too.

The documents would lead the police to Gosseberga, but at least he would have a head start.

He started Word and wrote in outline form the key facts he had discovered during the past twenty-four hours from his conversations with Björck and Palmgren, and from the material he had found at Salander’s place. It took him about an hour. He burned the document onto a CD along with his own research.

He wondered whether he ought to check in with Armansky, but thought the hell with it. He had enough balls to juggle already.

Blomkvist walked into Millennium and went straight to Berger’s office.

“His name is Zalachenko,” he said without even saying hello. “He’s a former Soviet hit man from one of the intelligence services. He defected in 1976 and was granted asylum in Sweden and given a salary by Säpo. After the end of the Soviet Union he became, like many others, a full-time gangster. Now he’s involved in sex trafficking and smuggling weapons and drugs.”

Berger put down her pen. “Why am I not surprised that the KGB is popping up in the action?”

“It’s not the KGB. It’s the GRU. The military intelligence service.”

“So it’s serious.”

Blomkvist nodded.

“You mean he’s the one who murdered Dag and Mia?”

“It wasn’t him, no. He sent someone. Ronald Niedermann, the monster that Malin has been finding out about.”

“Can you prove this?”

“More or less. Some of it is guesswork. But Bjurman was murdered because he asked Zalachenko for help in dealing with Lisbeth.”

Blomkvist told her about the DVD Salander had left in her desk.

“Zalachenko is her father. Bjurman worked formally for Säpo in the mid-seventies and was one of those who made Zalachenko officially welcome when he defected. Later Bjurman became a lawyer with his own practice and a full-time crook, doing jobs for an elite group within the Security Police. I would think there’s an inner circle that meets now and then in the men’s sauna to control the world and keep the secret about Zalachenko. I’m guessing that the rest of Säpo has never even heard of the bastard. Lisbeth threatened to crack the secret wide open. So they locked her up in a children’s psychiatric unit.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Oh, but it is,” Blomkvist said. “Lisbeth wasn’t especially manageable then, nor is she now… but since she was twelve years old she’s been a threat to national security.”

He gave her a summary of the story.

“This is quite a bit to digest,” Berger said. “And Dag and Mia…”

“Were murdered because Dag discovered the link between Bjurman and Zalachenko.”

“So what happens now? We have to tell the police, don’t we?”

“Parts of it, but not all. I’ve copied the significant information onto this disk as backup, just in case. Lisbeth is looking for Zalachenko. I’m going to try to find her. Nothing of this must be shared with anybody.”

“Mikael… I don’t like this. We can’t withhold information in a murder investigation.”

“And we’re not going to. I intend to call Bublanski. But my guess is that Lisbeth is on her way to Gosseberga. She’s still being sought for three murders, and if we call the police they’ll unleash their armed response team and backup weapons with hunting ammunition, and there’s a real risk that she would resist arrest. And then anything could happen.” He stopped and smiled grimly. “If nothing else, we ought to keep the police out of it so that the armed response team doesn’t come to a sticky end. I have to find her first.”

Berger looked dubious.

“I don’t intend to reveal Lisbeth’s secrets. Bublanski will have to figure those out for himself. I want you to do me a favour. This folder contains Björck’s report from 1991 and some correspondence between Björck and Teleborian. I want you to make a copy and offer it to Bublanski or Modig. I’m leaving for Göteborg in twenty minutes.”

“Mikael…”

“I know. But I’m on Lisbeth’s side through it all.”

Berger pressed her lips together and said nothing. Then she nodded.

“Be careful,” she said, but he had already left.

I should go with him, she thought. That was the only decent thing to do. But she still hadn’t told him that she was going to leave Millennium and that it was all over, no matter what happened. She took the folder and headed for the photocopier.

The box was in a post office in a shopping centre. Salander didn’t know Göteborg, nor where in the city she was, but she found the post office and positioned herself in a café where she could keep watch on the box through a gap in a window where there was a poster advertising the Svensk Kassatjänst, the improved Swedish postal system.

Irene Nesser wore more discreet makeup than Lisbeth Salander. She had some silly necklaces on and was reading Crime and Punishment, which she had found in a bookshop one street away. She took her time, occasionally turning a page. She’d begun her surveillance at lunch time and had no idea whether anyone came regularly to pick up the mail, whether it might be daily or every other week, whether it had already been collected earlier in the day, or whether anyone ever turned up at all. But it was her only lead, and she drank a caffè latte while she waited.

She was about to doze off when she suddenly saw the door to the box being opened. She glanced at the clock. A quarter to two. Lucky as shit.

She got up quickly and walked over to the window, where she spotted someone in a black leather jacket leaving the area where the boxes were. She caught up with him on the street outside. He was a thin young man in his twenties. He walked round the corner to a Renault and unlocked the door. Salander memorized the licence plate number and ran back to her Corolla, which was parked only a hundred yards away on the same street. She caught up with the car as it turned onto Linnégatan. She followed him down Avenyn and up towards Nordstan.

Blomkvist arrived at Central Station in time to catch the X2000 train at 5:10 p.m. He bought a ticket on board with his credit card, took a seat in the restaurant car, and ordered a late lunch.

He felt a gnawing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach and was afraid he had set off too late. He prayed that Salander would call him, but he knew that she wouldn’t.

She had done her best to kill Zalachenko in 1991. Now, after all these years, he had struck back.

Palmgren had delivered a prescient analysis. Salander had experienced personally that it was no use talking to the authorities.

Blomkvist glanced at his laptop bag. He had brought along the Colt that he’d found in her desk. He wasn’t sure why he had taken the gun, but he’d felt instinctively that he must not leave it in her apartment. He knew that wasn’t much of a logical argument.

As the train rolled across Årstabron he flipped open his mobile and called Bublanski.

“What do you want?” Bublanski said, obviously annoyed.

“To tie up loose ends,” Blomkvist said.

“Loose ends of what?”

“This whole mess. Do you want to know who murdered Svensson, Johansson, and Bjurman?”

“If you have information I’d like to hear it.”

“The murderer’s name is Ronald Niedermann. That’s the giant who boxed with Paolo Roberto. He’s a German citizen, thirty-five years old, and he works for a scumbag named Alexander Zalachenko, also known as Zala.”