whileherbrainworkedattopspeed.Mamma—click—sister—click—Mimmi—click—HolgerPalmgren.EvilFingers.AndArmansky.Thejob.HarrietVanger.Click.MartinVanger.Click.Thegolfclub.Click.ThelawyerBjurman.Click.Everysinglefuckingdetailthatshecouldn’tfetevenifshetried.
ShewonderedwhetherBjurmanwouldevertakehisclothesoffinfrontofawomanagain,andifhedid,howwashegoingtoexplainthetattoosonhisstomach?Andthenexttimehewenttothedoctorhowwouldheavoidtakingoffhisclothes?
AndMikaelBlomkvist.Click.
Sheconsideredhimtobeagoodperson,possiblywithaPracticalPigplexthatwassometimesalittletooapparent.Andhewasunbearablynaivewithregardtocertainelementarymoralissues.Hehadanindulgentandfivingpersonalitythatlookedforexplanationsandexcusesforthewaypeoplebehaved,andhewouldnevergetitthattheraptorsoftheworldunderstoodonlyonelanguage.Shefeltalmostawkwardlyprotectivewhenevershethoughtofhim.
Shedidnotrememberfallingasleep,butshewokeupat9:00a.m.withacrickinherneckandwithherheadleaningagainstthewallbehindthesofa.Shetotteredtothebedroomandfellbacktosleep.
Itwaswithoutadoubtthebiggeststoryoftheirlives.Forthefirsttimeinayearandahalf,Bergerwashappyinthewaythatonlyaneditorwhohasaspectacularscoopintheovencanbe.SheandBlomkvistwerepolishingthearticleonelasttimewhenSalandercalledhimonhismobile.
“IfottosaythatWennerstr?misstartingtogetworriedaboutwhatyou’vebeendoinglately,andhe’saskedforanadvancecopyofthenextissue.”
“Howdoyouknow…ah,fetthat.Anyideawhatheplanstodo?”
“Nix.Justonelogicalguess.”
Blomkvistthoughtforafewseconds.“Theprinter,”heexclaimed.
Bergerraisedhereyebrows.
“Ifyou’rekeepingalidontheeditorialoffices,therearen’tmanyotherpossibilities.Providednoneofhisthugsisplanningtopayyouanighttimevisit.”
BlomkvistturnedtoBerger.“anewprinterforthisissue.Now.AndcallDraganArmansky—Iwantsecurityhereatnightforthenextweek.”BacktoSalander.“Thanks.”
“What’sitworth?”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“What’sthetipworth?”
“Whatwouldyoulike?”