She did not remember falling asleep, but she woke up at 9:00 a.m. with a crick in
her neck and with her head leaning against the wall behind the sofa. She tottered
to the bedroom and fell back to sleep.
It was without a doubt the biggest story of their lives. For the first time in a year
and a half, Berger was happy in the way that only an editor who has a spectacular
scoop in the oven can be. She and Blomkvist were polishing the article one last
time when Salander called him on his mobile.
“I forgot to say that Wennerström is starting to get worried about what you’ve been
doing lately, and he’s asked for an advance copy of the next issue.”
“How do you know...ah, forget that. Any idea what he plans to do?”
“Nix. Just one logical guess.”
Blomkvist thought for a few seconds. “The printer,” he exclaimed.
Berger raised her eyebrows.
“If you’re keeping a lid on the editorial offices, there aren’t many other possibilities.
Provided none of his thugs is planning to pay you a nighttime visit.”
Blomkvist turned to Berger. “Book a new printer for this issue. Now. And call Dragan
Armansky—I want security here at night for the next week.” Back to Salander.
“Thanks.”
“What’s it worth?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s the tip worth?”
“What would you like?”