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PROLOGUE

“Hi Lisbeth, it’s me. It’s been a while.”

The voice is weak and croaky. His observation is correct: although they were in touch via digital platforms as recently as the autumn, it has been years since their last conversation. But she can hear instantly that it is Plague. Her hacker friend, if there is any such thing as friendship. Maybe the only one she has ever had.

“How are you?” she asks, but misses the answer when she is overcome by a fit of coughing from deep in her tortured lungs, coughing so violent that she has to put down the phone and rush to the sink to spit out gobs of viscous phlegm.

“Sorry,” she says, quite some time later. “Are you still there?”

“You sound ill, not like you.” As if he knows what’s actually like Lisbeth and what’s not. Armour-plated exterior, a face almost devoid of expression. A shell that keeps the outside world at a distance in a robotic, barely human way.

The contents of that shell can be glimpsed only when a rare crack opens.

Through years of occasionally crossing paths, they understand more about each other than most. Still, he knows very little about Lisbeth as a person, the one she has become or chooses to be. It’s almost comforting to hear that she can catch a cold like any other human being.

“That’s what happens when you hang out with walking sources of viral infection.”

“I take it you’re thinking of someone specific,” he says, hoping for a way in. Her inaudible grunt gives way to another coughing fit.

“How about you?” she asks once she has recovered sufficiently. “Phone calls aren’t usually your thing, but then again it is nearly Christmas. Happy Christmas to you too.”

He can’t help laughing. Typical Lisbeth, always on the attack. Always one step ahead, a way of making sure she can keep the doors closed.

“Do you mean Svala?” he says. “The walking source of infection?”

“Could be. But Blomkvist’s down with it too. We must have picked up some foul thing on the train back from Gasskas.”

“So you two are still in touch?” he says.

“No.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Did you ring for a reason?” she says, heading back to bed. There’s something in his voice, a tone trying to make its way through her snot-clogged, fever-hazed brain.

“Just wanted to make sure you were alive.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

He’s e-mailed her. Several times but had no reply. The break in contact coincided with his own failed attempt to hack into the Branco Group’s computer system. The silence made him anxious. But the momentary relief he felt when she answered his call is turning into something else. As she pointed out, he is not the type to ring his acquaintances for a chat. He is a creature of the darkness who stays in his cave. The kind who never pokes out his head to sample his surroundings. He can tell her suspicions have been aroused.

“Anyway, I’ve been thinking about you and I just wanted to check everything was alright,” he says, and immediately regrets it. His words ring as false as he feels: a traitor who has betrayed his best friend. She asked for help. But something – someone – got in the way. He could blame his own fear. Not particularly credible. His life has never been of much importance. Alive or dead, it’s all pretty much the same to him. The passing years are nothing but a distance to be covered. She knows that. Maybe he should come clean.

“Be in touch,” she breaks in, and ends the call. The audience is over.

The short December day turns to evening. Between spells of feverish sleep she lies awake in the darkness and tries to get her thoughts in order.

One part of her, the part which, against her will, has softened into a more conciliatory Lisbeth, tries hard to take the words for what they potentially are: a friend ringing up to ask how she is. Is that an utterly ridiculous proposition? No, or, well, yes, unless Plague has undergone a complete metamorphosis, which is possible but not likely. He was fishing for something. It takes her back to the experiences of the autumn, which she has done her best to forget.

Svala carrying her dying mother through a burning bunker.

Mikael Blomkvist getting shot as his grandchild is abducted by masked men.

Herself in the arms of a police officer.

And finally, Plague.

He has been at her side. She put her trust in his incorruptible integrity. They have eaten from the same pizza boxes. Solved problems that would make students of AI green with envy. She has so much to thank him for: her life, her freedom. But still, something isn’t right.

Once this crappy virus is out of her system, she’s going to find out what.

*
Christmas is coming and presents are being wrapped. The Residents’ Association would like all members to think about their recycling. Christmas string belongs in the general waste because it contains plastic and glue, but wrapping paper can be recycled as long as no sticky tape is left on it. With this we wish you all a joyful Christmas. Best wishes, your Chairman Per.

Lisbeth crumples the note into a ball, hurls it at the draining board as hard as she can and roundly curses the imminent arrival of Christmas. Its ugly mug pokes in everywhere, turning the city into a winking inferno of festoon lights, decorated trees and kiddies’ sparkling eyes in wheedling posters on the Tunnelbana. Whether you’re buying a piece of jewellery at NK department store or a litre of milk at the Co-op, the transaction ends with “Happy Christmas”. This revolting and absurdly hackneyed little phrase makes Lisbeth scowl and the music is even ghastlier. Who the hell seriously thinks Rudolph’s red nose is going to make anyone spend more? It’s as if the whole of Stockholm has morphed into some sort of Guantánamo detention camp with its own sonic torture regime. From the end of November until the yuletide hell is over, her custom-made, noise-cancelling headphones remain clapped over her ears. A little present she treated herself to a few years back. Well worth the million or so kronor. Music sounds amazing through them, apparently. But silence is what she’s after.

Normally she would never venture out into the melee of physical Christmas shopping, but the flu made her lose track of time and suddenly it’s too late to order online.

Christmas prompts associations to Rovaniemi, and Rovaniemi prompts associations to Svala (and unfortunately also to a slippery Greek-Chinese guy, the low-water mark of her year).

She could have made things easier for herself and sent money. Any amount. If not for the fact that she knew Svala would take it as an insult. The girl wants something personal. Nothing expensive or spectacular. Personal. Lisbeth asked if she had any wishes. “For you to come up,” was the answer but no, she doesn’t feel up to it. Her body can barely drag her as far as Kjell & Company home electronics store at the Skyscraper. It certainly couldn’t cope with the crush on public transport heading north.

Every now and then she stops and gasps for breath. Two more days, she tells herself. Two more days and then she’ll be back at the gym.

She has the shop assistant wrap the package. Makes her way to the post office counter in Ringen shopping centre and shells out a small fortune for express delivery to Gasskas. For a while, her guilty conscience is assuaged. She feels a sense of satisfaction. The Christmas present couldn’t be more personal. And it will be bloody useful to the right sort of person. Someone like Svala.