Then she took a sharp turn to the right and went straight at him, and he looked up and fumbled for his gun. But that was as far as he got. She kneed him in the groin and, as his body folded, she headbutted him twice. He lost his balance, and at that moment she heard the lady call out:
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Salander had to ignore her. There was no time to reassure old ladies and she was reasonably sure that she would not dare to come closer. Besides, the woman could call the police all she wanted. They would never make it in time, not now that Salander hurled herself at Andersson so that he crashed onto the road. Quick as a flash she sat on top of him, took off her sunglasses and pulled her pistol out of the bag, pressing the muzzle against his Adam’s apple. He looked up at her in terror.
“I’m going to kill you,” she said.
He no longer seemed so hard after all and he mumbled something as she continued in her coldest voice:
“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you and all the others in your shitty little club if you so much as lay a finger on Mikael Blomkvist. It’s me you want, so come for me, no-one else. Do you hear?”
“I hear you,” he said.
“Or actually…tell Sandström I don’t care whether you touch Blomkvist or not. I’m going to get you all anyway. Until there’s nothing left of you except your terrified girlfriends and wives.”
There was no answer from Andersson, so she pressed the muzzle of her pistol harder against his throat.
“So what’s it to be?”
“I’ll tell him,” Andersson stammered.
“Excellent. And by the way…there’s a woman staring at us, so I’m not going to throw away your pistol or do some other shit. I’m just going to kick you in the head, and if you so much as reach for your gun I’m going to shoot you. Because it’s like this you see…”
She frisked him quickly with her left hand and pulled his mobile out of his jeans, a new iPhone with face recognition.
“…I’m going to get my message out anyway. Even if you happen to die.”
She pushed her pistol up under his chin.
“So, Conny, let’s have a nice big smile from you now.”
She held the mobile over him and unlocked it, and in no time at all headbutted him again and took a photograph. Then she put her sunglasses back on and disappeared down towards Slussen and Gamla Stan, scrolling through Andersson’s contacts list. There were a few names there which surprised her, a well-known actor, two politicians and an officer in the drugs squad who was presumably corrupt. But she didn’t care about them.
She pulled out the names of the other members of Svavelsjö M.C. and sent off her picture of their buddy Andersson looking terrified and bewildered. Having copied the contents of his mobile she wrote:
<Your little friend has something to tell you>
Then she threw his mobile into Riddarfjärden.
CHAPTER 24
August 27
Forsell wanted only to withdraw into his shell, into the shelter of his dreams and memories. But hearing Nima Rita’s name mentioned in such stark relief, and the restrained anger in his wife’s voice, he was brought abruptly back to reality.
“How can he just show up in Sweden, out of the blue? I thought he was dead.”
“Who’s been here to see me?” he said.
He could see that she was irritated by his attempt to change the subject.
“I’ve already told you,” she said.
“I’ve forgotten.”
“The boys, of course, and your mother. She’s looking after them for the moment.”
“How have they taken it all?”
“What can I say, Johannes? What do you expect me to say?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said, and then she tried to compose herself, tried to become good old robust Becka again. But she was only half successful. Forsell glanced at the soldiers out in the corridor, with escape, evasion, threats, choices and risks fluttering like restless birds through his mind.
“I can’t talk about Nima now,” he said.
“Whatever you say.”
She had to force herself to give him a loving smile, and again she smoothed his hair. He shrugged off her caress.
“So what will you talk about?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least you’ve managed to do one thing,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Look around you. At all these flowers. We’ve only been able to accept some of them. All that hate has turned to love.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
She held out her mobile. “Go online and you’ll see.”
He waved vaguely, dismissively. “I bet they’ve been busy writing obituaries.”
“No, it’s good stuff—really.”
“Has anyone come from Must?” he said.
“Svante came, and Klas and Sten Siegler, and a few others, so the answer I guess is yes a thousand times over. Why do you ask?”
Why did he ask?
He knew the answer perfectly well, of course they had been to see him, and he saw the suspicion in Becka’s eyes. He remembered the feeling of that hand grabbing his hair deep in the water. And all of a sudden it hit him with unexpected force: He wanted to speak out, but he knew that would not be possible.
Their conversation was bound to be monitored and he thought it through, weighing the arguments for and against once more. He remembered his own desperate will to live as he was sinking through the currents.
“Do you have a pen and paper?” he said.
“What? Yes, I’m sure I have somewhere.”
She dug around in her handbag and took out a ballpoint pen and a small yellow block of Post-it notes and gave them to him.
We have to get out of here, he wrote.
* * *
—
Rebecka read what he had written and cast a fearful look at the guards through the glass in the door. Luckily they seemed bored and absorbed by their mobiles, and she answered in a nervous scribble:
Now?
He replied:
Now. Disconnect me from the machines and leave your mobile and handbag, we’ll pretend we’re going down to the hospital shop.