Stieg Larsson [Millennium 02] The Girl Who Played with Fire v5.0 (LIT)

by Неизвестный

  “OK. But I mean … what kind of work will you be doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you have to make a living.”

  “I told you, I have enough to get by.”

  Armansky leaned back in his chair. He was never quite sure how to interpret her words.

  “I’ve been so fucking angry that you vanished without a word that I almost decided never to trust you again.” He made a face. “You’re so unreliable. But you’re a damned good researcher. I might have a job coming up that would be a good fit for you.”

  She shook her head, but she came back to his desk.

  “I don’t want a job from you. I mean, I don’t need one. I’m serious. I’m financially independent.”

  Armansky frowned.

  “OK, you’re financially independent, whatever that means. I’ll take your word for it. But when you need a job …”

  “Dragan, you’re the second person I’ve visited since I got home. I don’t need your work. But for several years now you’ve been one of the few people that I respect.”

  “Everybody has to make a living.”

  “Sorry, but I’m no longer interested in doing personal investigations. Let me know if you run into a really interesting problem.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “The kind you can’t make heads or tails of. If you get stuck and don’t know what to do. If I’m going to do a job for you, you’ll have to come up with something special. Maybe on the operations side.”

  “Operations side? You? But you disappear without a trace whenever you feel like it.”

  “I’ve never skipped out on a job that I agreed to do.”

  Armansky looked at her helplessly. The term operations was jargon, but it meant field work. It could be anything from bodyguard duty to surveillance assignments for art exhibitions. His operations personnel were confident, stable veterans, many of them with a police background, and 90 percent of them were men. Salander was the polar opposite of all the criteria he had set out for personnel in the operations unit of Milton Security.

  “Well…” he said dubiously, but she had vanished out the door. Armansky shook his head. She’s weird. She’s really weird.

  The next second Salander was back in the doorway.

  “Oh, by the way … You’ve had two guys spending a month protecting that actress Christine Rutherford from the nutcase who writes her threatening letters. You think it’s an inside job because the letter writer knows so many details about her.”

  Armansky stared at Salander. An electric shock went through him. She’s done it again. She’s flung out a line about a case she absolutely cannot know a thing about.

  “So …?”

  “It’s a fake. She and her boyfriend have been writing the letters as a publicity stunt. She’s going to get another letter in the next few days, and they’ll leak it to the media next week. They’ll probably accuse Milton of leaking it. Cross her off your client list now.”

  Before Armansky could say anything she was gone. He stared at the empty doorway. She could not possibly have known a single detail of the case. She must have an insider at Milton who kept her updated. But only four or five people apart from himself knew about it—the operations chief and the few people who reported on the threats—and they were all stable pros. Armansky rubbed his chin.

  He looked down at his desk. The Rutherford file was locked inside it. The office had a burglar alarm. He glanced at the clock again and realized that Harry Fransson, chief of the technical department, would have finished for the day. He started up his email and sent a message asking Fransson to come to his office the following morning to install a surveillance camera.

  Salander walked straight home to Mosebacke. She hurried because she had a feeling it was urgent.

  She called the hospital in Söder and after some stalling from the switchboard managed to find out Palmgren’s whereabouts. For the past fourteen months he had been in a rehabilitation home in Ersta. All of a sudden she had a vision of Äppelviken. When she called she was told that he was asleep, but that she was welcome to visit him the next day.

  Salander spent the evening pacing back and forth in her apartment. She was in a foul mood. She went to bed early and fell asleep almost at once. She woke at 7:00 a.m., showered, and had breakfast at the 7-Eleven. At 8:00 she walked to the car rental agency on Ringvägen. I’ve got to get my own car. She rented the same Nissan Micra she had driven to Äppelviken a few weeks earlier.

  She was unaccountably nervous when she parked near the rehabilitation centre, but she gathered up her courage and went inside.

  The woman at the front desk consulted her papers and explained that Holger Palmgren was in the gym for therapy just then and would not be available until after 11:00. Salander was welcome to take a seat in the waiting room or come back later. She went and sat in the car and smoked three cigarettes while she waited. At 11:00 she went back to the front desk. She was told to go to the dining hall, down the corridor to the right and then to the left.

  She stopped in the doorway and recognized Palmgren in the half-empty dining room. He sat facing her, but was focusing all his attention on his plate. He held his fork in an awkward grip and steered the food to his mouth with great concentration. Every third time or so he missed and the food fell off the fork.

  He looked shrunken; he might be a hundred years old. His face seemed strangely immobile. He was sitting in a wheelchair. Only then did Salander take it in that he was alive, that Armansky had not just been punishing her.

  Palmgren swore silently as he tried for the third time to spear a bite of macaroni and cheese onto his fork. He was resigned to being unable to walk properly, and he accepted that there was a great deal he would be unable to do. But he hated not being able to eat properly and the fact that sometimes he drooled like a baby.

  He knew exactly what it was he should do: lower the fork at the right angle, push it forward, lift it, and guide it to his mouth. The problem was with the coordination. His hand had a life of its own. When he instructed it to lift, it would slide slowly to the side of the plate. If he did manage to steer it towards his mouth, it would often change direction at the last moment and land on his cheek or his chin.

  But the rehabilitation was producing results. Six months earlier his hand would shake so much that he could not get a single spoonful into his mouth. His meals might still be taking a long time, but at least he was eating by himself, and he was going to go on working at it until he once again had full control over his limbs.

  As he lowered his fork to collect another mouthful, a hand appeared from behind him and gently took it from him. He watched as the fork shovelled up some of the macaroni and cheese and raised it. He thought he knew the thin, doll-like hand and turned his head to meet Salander’s eyes. Her gaze was expectant. She seemed anxious.

  For a long moment Palmgren stared at her face. His heart was suddenly pounding in a most unreasonable way. Then he opened his mouth and accepted the food.

  She fed him one bite at a time. Normally Palmgren hated being spoon-fed, but he understood Salander’s need. It was not because he was a helpless piece of baggage. She was feeding him as a gesture of humility—in her case an extraordinarily rare occurrence. She put the right-size portions on the fork and waited until he was finished chewing. When he pointed at the glass of milk with the straw, she held it up so he could drink.

  When he had swallowed the last mouthful, she put the fork down and gave him a questioning look. He shook his head. They had not said a word to each other during the entire meal.

  Palmgren leaned back in his wheelchair and took a deep breath. Salander picked up the napkin and wiped around his mouth. He felt like a Mafia boss in an American movie where a capo di tutti capi was showing respect. He imagined how she would kiss his hand and smiled at the absurdity of this fantasy.

  “Do you think it would be possible to get a cup of coffee in this place?” she said.

  He slurred his words. His lips
and tongue could not shape the sounds.

  “Srvg tab rond corn.” The serving table is around the corner, she worked it out.

  “You want a cup? Milk, no sugar, as always?”

  He signalled yes with a hand. She carried his tray away and came back a minute later with two cups of coffee. He noticed that she drank hers black, which was unusual. He smiled when he saw that she had saved the straw from his milk for the coffee cup. Palmgren had a thousand things to say but he could not formulate a single syllable. But their eyes kept meeting, time after time. Salander looked terribly guilty. Finally she broke the silence.

  “I thought you’d died,” she said. “If I’d known you were alive I would never have… I would have come to see you a long time ago. Forgive me.”

  He bowed his head. He smiled, a twist of the lips.

  “You were in a coma when I left you and the doctors told me you were going to die. They said you would be dead within a few days and I just walked away. I’m so sorry.”

  He lifted his hand and laid it on her little fist. She took his hand in a firm grip.

  “Ju dsperd.” You disappeared.

  “Dragan Armansky told you?”

  He nodded.

  “I was off travelling. I needed to get away. I didn’t say goodbye to anybody, just left. Were you worried?”

  He shook his head from side to side, slowly.

  “You don’t ever have to worry about me.”

  “I nv word bow ju. Ju alws get ba. Bt Armshy’s word.” I never worried about you. You always get by. But Armansky was worried.

  She smiled her usual crooked smile at him and Palmgren relaxed. He studied her, comparing his memory of her with the woman he saw before him. She had changed. She was whole and clean and rather well dressed. She had taken out the ring that was in her lip and … hmm … the wasp tattoo on her neck was gone too. She looked grown up. He laughed for the first time in many weeks. It sounded like a coughing fit.

  Salander’s smile grew bigger and she suddenly felt a warmth that she had not felt in a long time filling her heart.

  “Ju dd gd.” You did good. He aimed a hand at her clothes. She nodded.

  “I’m doing fine.”

  “Howz z noo gardn?” How is the new guardian?

  Palmgren noticed Salander’s face darken. Her mouth tightened. She looked at him frankly.

  “He’s OK … I can handle him.”

  Palmgren’s eyebrows questioned her. Salander looked around the dining room and changed the subject.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Palmgren may have had a stroke and he still had difficulty speaking and coordinating his movements, but his mind was intact and his radar instantly picked up a false tone in Salander’s voice. In all the years he had known her, he had come to realize that she never lied to him directly, but neither was she totally candid. Her way of not telling him the truth was to distract his attention. There was obviously some problem with her new guardian. Which did not surprise Palmgren.

  He felt a deep sense of remorse. How many times had he thought about calling his colleague Nils Bjurman—a fellow lawyer after all, if not a friend—to ask how Salander was doing, but then neglected to do so? And why had he not contested her declaration of incompetence while he still had the power? He knew why—he had wanted, selfishly, to keep his contact with her alive. He loved this damned difficult child like the daughter he never had, and he wanted to have an excuse to maintain the relationship. Besides, it was physically too difficult. He had enough trouble just opening his fly when he tottered to the toilet. He felt as if he were the one who had let Lisbeth Salander down. But she’ll always survive… She’s the most competent person I’ve ever met.

  “Dscrt.”

  “I didn’t understand.”

  “Dstrc crt.”

  “The district court? What do you mean?”

  “Gtta cancl yr d … dc … dclrash incmp …”

  Palmgren’s face turned red and he grimaced when he could not pronounce the words. Salander put a hand on his arm and pressed gently.

  “Holger … don’t worry about me. I have plans to take on my declaration of incompetence soon. It’s not your worry any longer, but I may need your help eventually. Is that OK? Will you be my lawyer if I need you?”

  He shook his head.

  “Tu old.” He rapped his knuckle on the arm of his wheelchair. “Dum ld man.”

  “Yeah, you’re a dumb old man if you have that attitude. I need a legal advisor and I want you. You may not be able to give a statement in court, but you can give me advice when the time comes. Would you?”

  He shook his head again, and then he nodded.

  “Wrk?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Wut ju work on? Not Armshi.” What are you working on? Not Armansky

  Salander hesitated while she debated how to explain her situation. It was complicated.

  “I’m not working for Armansky anymore. I don’t need to work for him to make a living. I have my own money and I’m doing fine.”

  Palmgren’s eyebrows knitted together again.

  “I’ll come and visit you a lot, starting today. I’ll tell you all about… but let’s not get stressed about things. Right now there’s something else I want to do.”

  She bent down and lifted a bag to the table and took out a chessboard.

  “I haven’t had the chance to sweep the floor with you for two whole years.”

  He gave up. She was up to some mischief that she did not want to talk about. He was quite sure he would have severe reservations, but he trusted her enough still to know that whatever she was up to might be dubious in the eyes of the law but not a crime against God’s laws. Unlike most other people who knew her, Palmgren was sure that Salander was a genuinely moral person. The problem was that her notion of morality did not always coincide with that of the justice system.

  She set out the chessmen in front of him and he recognized with shock that it was his own board. She must have pinched it from the apartment after he fell ill. As a keepsake? She gave him white. All of a sudden he was as happy as a child.

  Salander stayed with Palmgren for two hours. She had crushed him three times before a nurse interrupted their bickering over the board, announcing that it was time for his afternoon physical therapy. Salander collected the chessmen and folded up the board.

  “Can you tell me what kind of physical therapy he’s getting?” she said.

  “It’s strength and coordination training. And we’re making progress, aren’t we?”

  Palmgren nodded grimly.

  “You can already walk several steps. By summer you’ll be able to walk by yourself in the park. Is this your daughter?”

  Salander’s and Palmgren’s eyes met.

  “Ster dotr.” Foster daughter.

  “How nice that you came to visit.” Where the hell have you been all this time? Salander ignored the unmistakable meaning. She leaned forward and kissed Palmgren on the cheek.

  “I’ll come again on Friday.”

  Palmgren stood up laboriously from his wheelchair. She walked with him to an elevator. As soon as the elevator doors had closed she went to the front desk and asked to speak to whoever was responsible for the patients. She was referred to a Dr. A. Sivarnandan, whom she found in an office further down a corridor. She introduced herself, explaining that she was Palmgren’s foster daughter.

  “I’d like to know how he’s doing and what’s going to happen with him.”

  Dr. Sivarnandan looked up Palmgren’s casebook and read the introductory pages. His skin was pitted by smallpox and he had a thin moustache which Salander found absurd. Finally he sat back. To her surprise he spoke with a Finnish accent.

  “I have no record of Herr Palmgren having a daughter or foster daughter. In fact, his nearest relative would seem to be an eighty-six-year-old cousin in Jämtland.”

  “He took care of me from when I was thirteen until he had his stroke. I was twenty-four at the time.
”

  She dug into the inside pocket of her jacket and threw a pen on to the desk in front of the doctor.

  “My name is Lisbeth Salander. Write my name in his casebook. I’m the closest relation he has in the world.”

  “That may be,” replied Dr. Sivarnandan firmly. “But if you are his closest relation you certainly took a long time letting us know. As far as I know, he has only had a few visits from a person who, while not related to him, is to be notified in case the state of his health worsens or if he should pass away.”

  “That would be Dragan Armansky.”

  Dr. Sivarnandan raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s correct. You know him?”

  “You can call him and verify that I am who I say I am.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I believe you. I was told that you sat and played chess with Herr Palmgren for two hours. But I cannot discuss the state of his health with you without his permission.”

  “And you’ll never get it from that stubborn devil. You see, he suffers from the delusion that he shouldn’t burden me with his troubles and that he is still responsible for me, and not the other way around. This is how it is: for two years I thought he was dead. Yesterday I discovered that he was alive. If I’d known that he … it’s complicated to explain, but I’d like to know what sort of prognosis he has and whether he will recover.”

  Dr. Sivarnandan picked up the pen and wrote Salander’s name neatly into Palmgren’s casebook. He asked for her social security number and telephone number.

  “OK, now you’re formally his foster daughter. This may not be completely by the book, but considering that you’re the first person to visit him since last Christmas when Herr Armansky stopped by … You saw him today—you can see for yourself that he has problems with coordination and speech. He had a stroke.”

  “I know. I was the one who found him and called the ambulance.”

  “Aha. Then you should know that he was in intensive care for three months. He was in a coma for a long time. Most patients never wake up from a coma like that, but it does happen. Obviously he wasn’t ready to die. First he was put in the dementia ward for chronic long-term patients who are completely unable to take care of themselves. Against all the odds he showed signs of improvement and was moved here for rehabilitation nine months ago.”