Free The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest by Stieg Larsson Page B

God, no.”
    “That’s what I thought.”
    “Have you appointed a managing editor?”
    “Henry. He’s been with us four years. Hardly an apprentice any longer.”
    “Do I have a say in this?”
    “No,” Malm said.
    Blomkvist gave a dry laugh. “Right. We’ll let it stand the way you’ve decided. Malin is tough, but she’s unsure of herself. Henry shoots from the hip a little too often. We’ll have to keep an eye on both of them.”
    “Yes, we will.”
    Blomkvist sat in silence, cradling his coffee. It would be damned empty without Berger, and he wasn’t sure how things would turn out at the magazine.
    “I have to call Erika and—”
    “No, better not.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “She’s sleeping at the office. Go and wake her up or something.”
    Blomkvist found Berger sound asleep on the sofa bed in her office. She had been up until all hours emptying her desk and bookshelves of all personal belongings and sorting papers that she wanted to keep. She had filled five large boxes. He looked at her for a while from the doorway before he went in and sat down on the edge of the sofa and woke her.
    “Why in heaven’s name don’t you go over to my place and sleep if you have to sleep on the job,” he said.
    “Hi, Mikael,” she said.
    “Christer told me.”
    She started to say something, but he bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
    “Are you livid?”
    “Insanely,” he said.
    “I’m sorry. I couldn’t turn it down. But it feels wrong, to leave all of you in the lurch in such a bad situation.”
    “I’m hardly the person to criticize you for abandoning ship. I left you in the lurch in a situation much worse than this.”
    “The two have nothing to do with each other. You took a break. I’m leaving for good and I didn’t tell anybody. I’m so sorry.”
    Blomkvist gave her a wan smile.
    “When it’s time, it’s time.” Then he added in English, “A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, and all that crap.”
    Berger smiled. Those were the words she had said to him when he moved to Hedeby. He reached out his hand and mussed her hair affectionately.
    “I can understand why you’d want to quit this madhouse—but to be the head of Sweden’s most turgid old-boy newspaper? That’s going to take some time to sink in.”
    “There are quite a few women working there nowadays.”
    “Bullshit. Check the masthead. It’s status quo all the way. You must be a raving masochist. Shall we go and have some coffee?”
    Berger sat up. “I have to know what happened in Göteborg.”
    “I’m writing the story now,” Blomkvist said. “And there’s going to be war when we publish it. We’ll put it out at the same time as the trial. I hope you’re not thinking of taking the story with you to
SMP
. The fact is I need you to write something on the Zalachenko story before you leave here.”
    “Micke . . . I . . .”
    “Your very last editorial. Write it whenever you like. It almost certainly won’t be published before the trial, whenever that might be.”
    “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. What do you think it should be about?”
    “Morality,” Blomkvist said. “And the story of why one of our colleagues was murdered because the government didn’t do its job fifteen years ago.”
    Berger knew exactly what kind of editorial he wanted. She had been at the helm when Svensson was murdered, after all. She suddenly felt in a much better mood.
    “OK,” she said. “My last editorial.”

CHAPTER 4
Saturday, April 9–Sunday, April 10
    By 1:00 on Saturday afternoon, Prosecutor Fransson in Södertälje had finished her deliberations. The burial ground in the woods in Nykvarn was a miserable mess, and the violent crimes division had racked up a huge amount of overtime since Wednesday, when Paolo Roberto had fought his boxing match with Niedermann in the warehouse there. They were dealing with at least three homicides, the bodies found buried on the property, along with the