The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye: Continuing Stieg Larsson's Millennium Series

by David Lagercrantz

  Leo Mannheimer had a tendency to play down the complimentary and flattering things said about him, which could be seen as coy. But the impression Blomkvist got was rather that Mannheimer was burdened with guilt and anguish, as though he felt he had failed to live up to the expectations invested in him as a child. Yet he had nothing to be ashamed of. His doctoral thesis had been on the 1999 I.T. bubble and, like his father, he had become a partner at Alfred Ögren Securities. Most of his fortune looked to have been inherited and he had never stood out, in either a positive or negative way, at least not as far as Blomkvist could see.

  The only remotely mysterious piece of information Blomkvist had unearthed was that Mannheimer had taken six months’ leave of absence as of January the previous year, to “travel”. Afterwards he had resumed his work, and started to give lectures and sometimes even appeared on television – not as a traditional financial analyst, more as a philosopher, an old-fashioned sceptic unwilling to pronounce on something so uncertain as the future. In his latest contribution to Dagens Industri’s webcast, on the rise of market prices during the month of May, he said:

  “The stock exchange is like someone who just came out of a depression. Everything that hurt so badly before suddenly seems far away. I can only wish the market the best of luck.”

  Obviously he was being sarcastic. For some reason Blomkvist watched the piece twice. Surely there was something interesting there? He thought so. It wasn’t just the way in which Mannheimer expressed himself. It was his eyes. Their sparkle was mournful and mocking, as if Mannheimer were musing over something quite different. Maybe that was one aspect of his intelligence – the ability to pursue many lines of thought at the same time – but he looked almost like an actor wanting to break out of his role.

  That did not necessarily make Leo Mannheimer a good story. Even so, Blomkvist abandoned his plans to take time off and enjoy the summer, if only to show Salander that he would not give in so easily. He got up from his computer, paced about and then sat down again, like a restless spirit, and he surfed the net and rearranged his bookshelf and rummaged around in the kitchen. But the subject of Mannheimer never left him. At 1.00 p.m., as he was about to shave and grumpily weigh himself – one of his new habits – he burst out:

  “Malin, for heaven’s sake.”

  How could he have missed it? That was why Alfred Ögren Securities had seemed familiar. Malin Frode used to work there. She was one of his exes. A firebrand feminist and altogether passionate person – now press secretary at the Foreign Ministry – she and Blomkvist had loved and fought with equal intensity in the days after she had given up her job as director of communications at Alfred Ögren. Malin had long legs, beautiful dark eyes, and a remarkable ability to get under people’s skin. Blomkvist dialled her number and realized only afterwards that, faced with the temptation of the summer sun, he had missed Malin more than he cared to admit.

  Malin Frode would have liked to do without her mobile on weekends. She wanted it to keep quiet and give her room to breathe, but it was a part of her job to be permanently accessible, so she always managed to sound pleasant and professional. One fine day she would explode.

  These days she was a single mother, for all intents and purposes. Niclas, her ex-husband, wanted to be treated like a hero when he looked after his own son for the occasional weekend. He had just come to pick up the boy and threw out the comment:

  “Go on then, have a good time, as usual!”

  Presumably he was referring to the liaisons she had had when their marriage was irreparably over. She had smiled stiffly at him, hugged her six-year-old son, Linus, and said goodbye. But later she felt angry. She kicked a tin can in the street and swore to herself. And now her mobile was ringing, some global crisis no doubt. These days there was a never-ending stream of crises. But no – this time it was something much better.

  It was Mikael Blomkvist, and on top of relief she felt a rush of longing. She looked over towards Djurgården at a lone sailing boat crossing the inlet. She had just emerged onto Strandvägen.

  “What an honour,” she said.

  “Hardly,” Blomkvist said.

  “If only you knew. What have you been up to?”

  “Working.”

  “Isn’t that what you always do? Slave away?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “I like you better when you’re on your back.”

  “I probably prefer that too.”

  “Lie down, then.”

  “O.K.”

  She waited a second or two.

  “Are you lying down now?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Very little.”

  “Liar. So, to what do I owe this honour?”

  “It’s a business call.”

  “What a fucking bore.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I can’t stop thinking about that hacker attack on Finance Security.”

  “Of course you can’t. You never let go of anything, apart from the women whose paths happen to cross yours …”

  “I don’t let go of the women so easily either.”

  “Apparently not, when you need them as sources. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been reading that one of your old colleagues was trying to analyse that data breach too.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Leo Mannheimer.”

  “Leo,” she said.

  “What’s he like?”

  “A cool customer – and unlike you in other ways too.”

  “Lucky man.”

  “Very lucky.”

  “In what ways is he different from me?”

  “Leo, he’s …” She paused.

  “He’s what?”

  “For starters he’s not a leech like you, always sucking information from the people around you. He’s a thinker, a philosopher.”

  “We leeches have always been a little primitive.”

  “You’re a catch, Mikael. You know that,” she said. “But you’re more of a cowboy. You don’t have time to stand around and dither like some Hamlet.”

  “So Mannheimer’s a Hamlet.”

  “He should never have ended up in the finance industry, that’s for sure.”

  “Where should he be instead?”

  “In music. He plays the piano like a god. He’s got perfect pitch, he’s incredibly gifted. Plus he’s just not that into money.”

  “Not a great quality in a finance guy.”

  “No indeed. Must have had it too good when he was a kid. He’s not hungry enough. Why are you interested in him?”

  “He has some pretty exciting ideas about the hacker attack.”

  “That could be. But you won’t find any dirt on him, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it was my job to keep tabs on those guys, and to be totally straight with you …”

  “Yes?”

  “… I doubt that Leo’s capable of real deceit. Instead of making shady investments or generally misbehaving, he sits at home playing his grand piano and feeling miserable.”

  “So why’s he in the business?”

  “Because of his dad.”

  “Who was a big shot.”

  “Definitely a big shot. Also best friends with old Alfred Ögren himself, and totally self-obsessed. He was determined that Leo should become a financial genius, take over his interest in Alfred’s company, and go on to build a power base for himself in the Swedish economy. And Leo … what can I say…?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He doesn’t have much backbone. He let himself be talked into it, and in fact he didn’t do a bad job. He never does anything badly. But he wasn’t that brilliant either, not in the way he could have been. He lacks the drive. One day he told me he felt like something vital had been taken away from him. He carries a wound.”

  “A wound?”

  “Something bad from his childhood. I never got close enough to un
derstand it, even though, briefly …”

  “Briefly what?”

  “Nothing, we were just playing around, I guess.”

  Blomkvist decided not to pursue it.

  “I read that he took time off to travel,” he said.

  “After his mother’s death.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Oh, it was grim. Pancreatic cancer.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “I actually thought it would do him some good.”

  “Oh?”

  “His parents were always on his case. I hoped he might have a chance to tear himself away from the world of finance and seriously start to play the piano or whatever. You know, right before I quit Alfred Ögren, Leo was on top of the world. I never found out why. For a brief moment he seemed to escape the cloud hanging over him. But then he was worse than ever. It was heartbreaking.”

  “Was his mother still alive then?”

  “Yes, but not for much longer.”

  “Where did he go, on his travels?”

  “No idea. I’d left the company by then.”

  “And in the end he returned to Alfred Ögren.”

  “I suppose he didn’t have the courage to break free.”

  “He’s giving lectures now.”

  “Maybe that’s a step in the right direction,” she said. “Why does he interest you?”

  “He compares the attacks in Brussels to other known disinformation campaigns.”

  “Russian campaigns, right?”

  “He describes it as a modern form of warfare, which intrigues me.”

  “Lies as weapons.”

  “Lies as a way of creating chaos and confusion. Lies as an alternative to violence.”

  “Isn’t there evidence that the hacker attack was directed from Russia?” she said.

  “Yes, but no-one knows who in Russia is behind it.The gentlemen in the Kremlin claim to have nothing to do with it, of course.”

  “Do you suspect that gang you’ve been chasing, the Spiders?”

  “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “I doubt Leo could help you there.”

  “Maybe not, but I’d like …”

  He seemed to have lost his train of thought.

  “… to buy me a drink?” she suggested. “Shower me with flattery and praise and expensive presents? Take me to Paris?”

  “What?”

  “Paris. A city in Europe. Said to have a conspicuous tower.”

  “Leo’s being interviewed live on stage at the Fotografiska Museum tomorrow,” he said, as if he hadn’t been listening. “Why don’t you tag along? We might learn something.”

  “Learn something? For Christ’s sake, Mikael, is that all you’ve got to offer a damsel in distress?”

  “For the moment, yes,” he said and sounded distracted again, which upset her even more.

  “You’re an idiot, Blomkvist!” she spat and hung up. She stood there on the pavement, seething with an old familiar rage that went hand-in-hand with talking to him.

  But soon she calmed down. A memory which had nothing to do with Blomkvist rose slowly to the surface. In her mind’s eye she could see Mannheimer in his office at Alfred Ögren late one night, writing on a sheet of sand-coloured paper. There was something about the scene which seemed to carry a message, spreading like mist over Strandvägen. For a little while Malin Frode stood lost in her thoughts. Then she wandered down towards Dramaten and Berns Hotel, cursing at ex-husbands, former lovers and other representatives of the male species.

  Blomkvist realized that he had put his foot in it and was considering calling back and apologizing, maybe even asking her to dinner. But then a thousand and one thoughts crowded in and instead he called Annika. Annika Giannini was not only his sister, she was also Salander’s lawyer. Maybe she would have an idea of what Salander was searching for. She was scrupulous about client confidentiality, but she could be forthcoming if sharing the information was helpful to her client.

  There was no answer at first, but she rang back half an hour later and confirmed at once that Salander seemed changed. Annika thought Salander’s eyes had been opened to what was going on in the maximum security unit and could now see that it was unsafe. That’s why Giannini had been pushing for Salander to be transferred. But Salander had refused to go. She had things to do, she said. And, so she insisted, she was not in any danger. But there were others, especially a young woman called Faria Kazi, who had been the victim of honour-related violence at home and was being abused in jail, too.

  “That’s an interesting case,” Giannini said. “I’m thinking of taking it on too. We may well have a common interest here, Mikael.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You land a good story, and I might get some help with my research. Something about it doesn’t feel quite right.”

  Blomkvist did not take the bait. Instead he said:

  “Have you heard any more about the threats against Lisbeth?”

  “Not really, except that there’s a frightening number of sources. All the talk is about her sister, those criminals in Russia and the Svavelsjö M.C.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  “Everything I can, Mikael. What do you think? I’ve put pressure on the prison to ramp up their efforts to guard her. Right now I don’t see any acute danger. But there’s something else that may have affected her.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Holger Palmgren went to see her.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, no, it was apparently a sight to see. But he insisted. I think it was important to him to go.”

  “I can’t even imagine how he managed to make it to Flodberga.”

  “I helped him with the red tape and Lisbeth paid for the transport there and back. And there was a nurse in the car. He rolled into the jail in his wheelchair.”

  “Did the visit upset her?”

  “She doesn’t get upset easily, of course. But she and Holger are close, we both know that.”

  “Could Holger have said something to get her going?”

  “Like what?”

  “Something about her past, maybe. Nobody knows what went on there better than he does.”

  “She hasn’t said so. The only thing she feels strongly about at the moment is that woman Faria Kazi.”

  “Have you heard of someone called Leo Mannheimer?”

  “Sounds familiar. Why do you ask?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “Did Lisbeth mention him?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Fine, but if you want to know what she and Holger talked about, it’s probably best if you contact him yourself,” Giannini said. “I think Lisbeth would appreciate it if you kept an extra eye on him just now.”

  “I will,” he said.

  They hung up and he called Palmgren at once. The line was busy, again and again for ages, and then suddenly there was no answer. Blomkvist considered going straight out to Liljeholmen. Then he thought about Palmgren’s health. He was old and sick, in considerable pain. He needed his rest. Blomkvist decided to wait and instead kept going with his research into the Mannheimer family and Alfred Ögren. He turned up a lot.

  He always found stuff when he dug deep. But there was nothing that stood out or seemed to be linked to Salander or the hacker attack. So he changed his strategy, precisely because of Palmgren and the old man’s knowledge about Salander’s childhood. Blomkvist thought it by no means impossible that Mannheimer belonged to her past in some way; she had after all been talking about old lists of names. He therefore decided to go way back in time, at least as far back as the internet and databases would allow. An article in Uppsala Nya Tidning caught his eye; for a short while this story had attracted a certain amount of attention because it had been picked up in a T.T. telegram which went out the same day. As far as he could tell, the incident had not been mentioned again, probably out of consideration for the people involved and because of the more indulgent approach of t
he media at that time – especially when it came to the elite.

  The dramatic event had taken place during an elk hunt in Östhammar twenty-five years earlier. The Alfred Ögren hunting party, which Mannheimer’s father Herman belonged to, had headed back out to the woods after an extended lunch. Wine had no doubt been consumed. It seems that there was bright sunlight and for various reasons the group had dispersed. After two elk had been sighted among the trees, shots were fired. An older man by the name of Per Fält, who at the time was C.F.O. of the Rosvik group, said that he had become disorientated by the excitement and confused by the animals’ rapid movements. He fired a shot and heard a scream and a cry for help. A young psychologist called Carl Seger, one of the hunting party, had been hit in the stomach, just below the chest. He died not long after, beside a small brook.

  Nothing in the ensuing police investigation suggested that it had been anything other than an accident, still less that either Alfred Ögren or Herman Mannheimer had been involved. But Blomkvist thought he might be onto something, especially after he learned that Per Fält, the man who fired the fatal shot, had died a year later, without leaving a wife or children. In an inconsequential obituary he was described as a “steadfast friend” and a dedicated and loyal colleague in the Rosvik group.

  Blomkvist looked out of the window, lost in thought. The sky had darkened over Riddarfjärden. A shift in the weather was coming and once more the damned rain had started to fall. He stretched his back and massaged his shoulders. Could the psychologist who had been shot have had any connection to Leo Mannheimer?

  There was no way of knowing. This could be a dead end, a meaningless tragedy. Even so, Blomkvist tried to find as much information as he could about the psychologist. There was not much. When Carl Seger died, he was thirty-two and had just got engaged. He had completed his doctorate at Stockholm University the year before, his thesis had been on the impact of hearing on self-perception. An “empirical study”, it was called.

  It was not available online and he could not discover exactly what the findings were, even though Seger had touched briefly on the same topic in other essays Blomkvist managed to find on Google Scholar. In one, the psychologist described a classic experiment which demonstrated how subjects identify a picture of themselves more quickly, among hundreds of others, if the picture has been embellished to make them appear more attractive. It is an evolutionary advantage to over-estimate ourselves when we need to mate or seek leadership in our group, but this also entails a risk: