The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (Millennium 3)

It was 2:30 in the afternoon. He didn't have an appointment, but the editor, Kurdo Baksi, was in and delighted to see him.

"Hello there," he said heartily. "Why don't you ever come and visit me anymore?"

"I'm here to see you right now," Blomkvist said.

"Sure, but it's been three years since the last time."

They shook hands.

Blomkvist had known Baksi since the eighties. In fact, Blomkvist had been one of the people who gave Baksi practical help when he started the magazine Black/White with an issue that he produced secretly at night at the Trade Union Confederation offices. Baksi had been caught in the act by Per-Erik Astrom--the same man who went on to be the paedophile hunter at Save the Children--who in the eighties was the research secretary at the Trade Union Confederation. He had discovered stacks of pages from Black/White's first issue, along with an oddly subdued Baksi in one of the copy rooms. Astrom had looked at the front page and said: "God Almighty, that's not how a magazine is supposed to look." After that, Astrom had designed the logo that was on Black/White's masthead for fifteen years before Black/White magazine went to its grave and became the book publishing house Black/White. At the same time, Blomkvist had been suffering through an appalling period as IT consultant at the Trade Union Confederation--his only venture into the IT field. Astrom had enlisted him to proofread and give Black/White some editorial support. Baksi and Blomkvist had been friends ever since.

Blomkvist sat on a sofa while Baksi got coffee from a machine in the hallway. They chatted for a while, the way you do when you haven't seen someone for some time, but they were constantly interrupted by Baksi's mobile. He would have urgent-sounding conversations in Kurdish or possibly Turkish or Arabic or some other language that Blomkvist did not understand. It had always been this way on his other visits to Black/White Publishing. People called from all over the world to talk to Baksi.

"My dear Mikael, you look worried. What's on your mind?" he said at last.

"Could you turn off your phone for a few minutes?"

Baksi turned off his phone.

"I need a favour. A really important favour, and it has to be done immediately and cannot be mentioned outside this room."

"Tell me."

"In 1989 a refugee by the name of Idris Ghidi came to Sweden from Iraq. When he was faced with the prospect of deportation, he received help from your family until he was granted a residency permit. I don't know if it was your father or somebody else in the family who helped him."

"It was my uncle Mahmut. I know Ghidi. What's going on?"

"He's working in Goteborg. I need his help to do a simple job. I'm willing to pay him."

"What kind of job?"

"Do you trust me, Kurdo?"

"Of course. We've always been friends."

"The job is very odd. I don't want to say what it entails right now, but I assure you it's in no way illegal, nor will it cause any problems for you or for Ghidi."

Baksi gave Blomkvist a searching look. "You don't want to tell me what it's about?"

"The fewer people who know, the better. But I need your help for an introduction--so that Idris will listen to me."

Baksi went to his desk and opened an address book. He looked through it for a minute before he found the number. Then he picked up the phone. The conversation was in Kurdish. Blomkvist could see from Baksi's expression that he started out with words of greeting and small talk before he got serious and explained why he was calling. After a while he said to Blomkvist: "When do you want to meet him?"

"Friday afternoon, if that would work. Ask if I can visit him at home."

Baksi spoke for a short while before he hung up.

"Idris lives in Angered," he said. "Do you have the address?"

Blomkvist nodded.

"He'll be home by 5:00 on Friday afternoon. You're welcome to visit him there."

"Thanks, Kurdo."

"He works at Sahlgrenska hospital as a cleaner," Baksi said.

"I know."

"I couldn't help reading in the papers that you're mixed up in this Salander story."

"That's right."

"She was shot."

"Yes."

"I heard she's at Sahlgrenska."

"That's also true."

Baksi knew that Blomkvist was busy planning some sort of mischief, which he was famous for doing. They might not have been best friends, but they never argued either, and Blomkvist had never hesitated if Baksi asked him a favour.

"Am I going to get mixed up in something I ought to know about?"

"You're not going to get involved. Your role was only to do me the kindness of introducing me to one of your acquaintances. And, I repeat, I won't ask him to do anything illegal."

This assurance was enough for Baksi. Blomkvist stood up. "I owe you one."

"We always owe each other one."

Cortez put down the phone and drummed so loudly with his fingertips on the edge of his desk that Nilsson glared at him. But she could see that he was lost in thought, and since she was feeling irritated in general she decided not to take it out on him.

She knew that Blomkvist was doing a lot of whispering with Cortez and Eriksson and Malm about the Salander story, while she and Karim were expected to do all the grunt work for the next issue of a magazine that hadn't had any real leadership since Berger left. Eriksson was fine, but she lacked the experience and gravitas of Berger. And Cortez was just a young whippersnapper.

Nilsson was not unhappy that she had been passed over, nor did she want their jobs--that was the last thing she wanted. Her own job was to keep tabs on the government departments and Parliament on behalf of Millennium. She enjoyed the work, and she knew it inside out. Besides, she was overloaded with part-time jobs, like writing a column in a trade journal every week, and various volunteer tasks for Amnesty International and the like. She wasn't interested in being editor in chief of Millennium and working a minimum of twelve hours a day as well as sacrificing her weekends.

She did, however, feel that something had changed at Millennium. The magazine suddenly felt foreign. She could not put her finger on what was wrong.

As always, Blomkvist was irresponsible and kept vanishing on another of his mysterious trips, coming and going as he pleased. He was a part owner of Millennium, fair enough; he could decide for himself what he wanted to do, but Jesus, a little sense of responsibility wouldn't hurt.

Malm was also part owner, and he was about as much help as he was when he was on vacation. He was talented, no question, and he could step in and take over the reins when Berger was away or busy, but usually he just followed through with what other people had already decided. He was brilliant at anything involving graphic design or presentations, but he was out of his depth when it came to planning a magazine.

Nilsson frowned.

No, she was being unfair. What bothered her was that something had happened at the office. Blomkvist was working with Eriksson and Cortez, and the rest of them were somehow excluded. Those three had formed an inner circle and were always shutting themselves in Berger's office . . . well, Eriksson's office, and then they'd all come trooping out in silence. Under Berger's leadership the magazine had always been a collective.

Blomkvist was working on the Salander story and wouldn't share any part of it. This was nothing new. He hadn't said a word about the Wennerstrom story either--not even Berger had known--but this time he had two confidants.

In a word, Nilsson was pissed off. She needed a vacation. She needed to get away for a while. Then she saw Cortez putting on his corduroy jacket.

"I'm going out for a while," he said. "Could you tell Malin that I'll be back in two hours?"

"What's going on?"

"I think I've got a lead on a story. A really good story. About toilets. I want to check a few things, but if this pans out we'll have a fantastic article for the June issue."

"Toilets," Nilsson muttered.

Berger clenched her teeth and put down the article abou

t the forthcoming Salander trial. It was short, two columns, intended for page five, under national news. She looked at the text for a minute and pursed her lips. It was 3:30 on Thursday. She had been working at SMP for exactly twelve days. She picked up the phone and called Holm, the news editor.

"Hello, it's Berger. Could you find Johannes Frisk and bring him to my office ASAP?"

She waited patiently until Holm sauntered into the glass cage with the reporter Frisk in tow. Berger looked at her watch.

"Twenty-two," she said.

"Twenty-two what?" said Holm.

"Twenty-two minutes. That's how long it's taken you to get up from the editorial desk, walk the fifty feet to Frisk's desk, and drag yourself over here with him."

"You said there was no rush. I was pretty busy."

"I did not say there was no rush. I asked you to get Frisk and come to my office. I said ASAP, and I meant ASAP, not tonight or next week or whenever you feel like getting your butt out of your chair."

"But I don't think--"

"Shut the door."

She waited until Holm had closed the door behind him and studied him in silence. He was without doubt an extremely competent news editor. His role was to make sure that the pages of SMP were filled every day with the correct text, logically organized, and appearing in the order and position they had decided on in the morning meeting. This meant that Holm juggled a colossal number of tasks every day. And he did it without ever dropping a ball.

The problem with him was that he consistently ignored the decisions Berger made. She had done her best to find a formula for working with him. She had tried friendly reasoning and direct orders, she had encouraged him to think for himself, and generally she had done everything she could think of to make him understand how she wanted the newspaper to be shaped.