The Girl Who Played with Fire . The woman may have had a few too many drinks, but her going to bed with a book about the mysteries of mathematics. Part blistering espionage thriller, part riveting police procedural, and part piercing exposé on social injustice, this second book in the Millennium. The Girl Who Played with Fire (Millennium #2) Mikael Blomkvist, crusading journalist and publisher of the magazine Millennium, has decided to run a story that.

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The Girl Who Played with Fire (Millennium Series Book 2) - Kindle edition by Stieg Larsson, Reg Keeland. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, . The Girl Who Played with Fire (Millennium Series Book 2) and millions of other books are available for instant access. view Kindle eBook | view Audible. [PDF] The Girl Who Played with Fire (Millennium Trilogy) Full Colection. 3 years ago3 views. Add to Playlist. Visit Here

Whilst the research is mostly complete, Svensson, Johansson, and the Millennium staff are intrigued by recurring mentions of "Zala", a shadowy figure heavily involved in Sweden's sex-trafficking industry. Salander, hacking Mikael Blomkvist's computer, is taken aback by the mention of Zala, and visits Svensson and Johansson to ask questions.

Part 3 — Absurd Equations[ edit ] Later the same night, Blomkvist calls on the couple, and finds them both shot dead in their apartment, the killer having apparently left the building only seconds before. Blomkvist notifies Erika Berger, the Millennium's editor-in-chief and his lover, of the double murder, and the magazine's management team holds an emergency meeting at which they decide to postpone the publication of Svensson's book and the associated magazine special.

They decide to backtrack Svensson's research to ensure the accuracy of the material, and to comb through it for possible murder motives, while Blomkvist is tasked with finishing Svensson's mostly-completed book. The team identifies Salander's fingerprints on the murder weapon, and her formal record establishes her as a violent, unstable, psychotic young woman with a history of prostitution.

Armansky, Blomkvist, and Berger all vouch for Salander's intelligence and moral fiber; neither Blomkvist nor Berger was even aware of her psychiatric history. While investigating Salander's social circle, Modig finds Bjurman shot dead in his apartment with his own revolver, the same weapon used on Svensson and Johansson; Salander remains the prime suspect.

Blomkvist enlists the help of managing editor Malin Eriksson to investigate the murders, during which investigation Blomkvist realizes that Salander has hacked into his notebook computer. He leaves her notes on his desktop, and her replies point him to "Zala".

Miriam Wu returns from a Paris trip to find herself taken to the police station, and she confirms Salander's intelligence and moral character. The press also publishes information about Salander's past. Part 4 — Terminator[ edit ] Part 4 begins with Salander's wondering why the press's inside source has chosen not to publicize "All the Evil", the events which dominated the gap in her biography, information she knows would swing public opinion even further against her.

Blomkvist is approached by Paolo Roberto , a boxing champion and Salander's former coach. Blomkvist asks Roberto to help by finding Miriam Wu, who, released by the police, has been avoiding all contact from the press, including Blomkvist. In the meantime, at Salander's suggestion, Blomkvist focuses on Zala as the key connection among the three murders and the sex trafficking. As the police continue the investigation, Blomkvist's team also notices the three-year gap in Salander's biography. Roberto, staking out Salander's former apartment in the hopes of catching Wu, witnesses her being kidnapped into a van by a paunchy man with a ponytail Salander's earlier attacker and a "blond giant".

He follows the van to a warehouse south of Nykvarn , where he attempts to rescue Wu by boxing with the giant. He finds his opponent unusually muscular and totally insensitive to pain , and only through applications of massive blunt trauma can he and Wu stun the giant enough to escape.

The giant recovers and sets the warehouse on fire to destroy the evidence. However, Roberto is able to direct the police to the site, where they find three buried and dismembered bodies.

Visiting Bjurman's summer cabin, Salander finds a classified Swedish Security Service file written about "All The Evil", and begins to make the connection between Bjurman and Zala, whose real name is Alexander Zalachenko. Salander physically incapacitates them, leaving more suspects for Bublanski to find.

She returns to her apartment and, having no choice, decides to find Zalachenko and kill him. In his apartment, Blomkvist finds Salander's keys, which he had picked up after her escape from Lundin. He manages to find her new, upscale apartment as well as the DVD revealing Bjurman's crime. He became the partner of a year-old woman who became pregnant with twins, Lisbeth and Camilla.

Zalachenko was an itinerant father who physically and emotionally abused his partner when he was home. The cycle of violence culminated in Lisbeth Salander's deliberately setting his car alight with gasoline while her father was in it.

This is the event Salander refers to as "All the Evil", since the authorities, instead of listening to her pleas on behalf of her mother, imprisoned Salander and declared her insane.

Salander's mother was left with the first of a series of cerebral hemorrhages which consigned her to nursing homes and ultimately caused her death. Salander realised that the government would never acknowledge Zalachenko's crimes, which would require them to admit his existence.

He always did that. She had never slept over at his place, and he often protested that she, a woman all alone, should not be walking back to her hotel at night. He insisted it was his duty to accompany her back to the hotel. Especially when it was very late, as it often was. Salander would listen to his objections and then cut the discussion off with a firm no. The first time she caught him following her she was really annoyed. But now she thought his wanting to protect her was rather sweet, so she pretended that she did not know he was there behind her or that he would turn back when he saw her go in the door of the hotel.

She wondered what he would do if she were attacked. She would make use of the hammer she had bought at a hardware store and kept in the outside pocket of her shoulder bag. There were not so many physical threats that could not be countered with a decent hammer, Salander thought.

There was a full moon and the stars were sparkling. Salander looked up and identified Regulus in Leo near the horizon. She was almost at the hotel terrace when she stopped short. She had caught sight of someone near the waterline below the hotel. It was the first time she had seen a living soul on the beach after dark. He was almost a hundred yards off, but Salander knew at once who it was there in the moonlight.

It was the fine Dr. Forbes from room She took three quick steps into the shadow of a tree. When she turned her head, Bland was invisible too.

He was smoking a cigarette. Every so often he would stop and bend down as if to examine the sand. Salander waited for a few minutes before she went down to where Dr. Forbes had been. She made a slow semicircle, inspecting the sand. All she could make out was pebbles and some shells. After a few minutes she broke off her search and went back to the hotel.

All was quiet. After a while she took from her shoulder bag some papers to roll a joint from the supply that Bland had given her. She sat down on a balcony chair and gazed out at the dark water of the Caribbean as she smoked and thought.

She felt like a radar installation on high alert. He saw everyone passing in an unbroken stream, but observed none of them. He was thinking of Lisbeth Salander. He thought often about Salander. What he was thinking made him boil with rage. Salander had crushed him.

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He was never going to forget it. She had taken command and humiliated him. She had abused him in a way that had left indelible marks on his body. On an area the size of a book below his navel. He had been assigned to be her guardian, which made her inescapably dependent on him. From the first time he met her he had fantasized about her. He could not explain it, but she seemed to invite that response. What he had done—he, a fifty-five-year-old lawyer—was reprehensible, indefensible by any standard.

He knew that, of course. The laws, the most basic moral code, and his responsibility as her guardian—none of it mattered at all. She was a strange girl—fully grown but with an appearance that made her easily mistaken for a child.

He had control over her life; she was his to command. She had a record that robbed her of credibility if she ever had a mind to protest. Nor was it a rape of some innocent—her file confirmed that she had had many sexual encounters, could even be regarded as promiscuous.

A police patrol had observed a drunken older man sitting with a young girl on a park bench in Tantolunden. The police had confronted the pair; the girl had refused to answer their questions, and the man was too intoxicated to give them any sensible information. It was risk-free. If she dared to protest to the Guardianship Agency, no-one was going to believe her word against his.

She was the ideal plaything—grown-up, promiscuous, socially incompetent, and at his mercy. It was the first time he had exploited one of his clients. Previously it had never occurred to him to make advances to anyone with whom he had a professional relationship. To satisfy his sexual needs, he had always turned to prostitutes. He had been discreet and he paid well; the problem was that prostitutes were not serious, they were only pretending.

It was a service he bought from a woman who moaned and rolled her eyes; she played her part, but it was as phony as street theatre. He had tried to dominate his wife in the years that he was married, but she had merely gone along with it, and that too was a game.

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Salander had been the perfect solution. She was defenceless. She had no family, no friends: a true victim, ripe for plundering. The opportunity makes the thief. And then out of the blue she had destroyed him.

Stieg Larsson and Millennium

She had struck back with a power and determination that he had not dreamed she possessed. She had humiliated him.

She had tortured him. She had all but demolished him. He had locked himself in, did not answer the telephone, and was unable even to keep up contact with his regular clients. After two weeks he went on sick leave.

His secretary was deputized to deal with his correspondence at the office, cancelling all his meetings and trying to keep irritated clients at bay. Every day he was confronted by the tattoo on his body.

Finally he took down the mirror from the bathroom door. He returned to his office at the beginning of summer.

He had handed over most of his clients to his colleagues. The only ones he kept for himself were companies for whom he dealt with legal business correspondence without being involved in meetings. His only active client now was Salander—each month he wrote up a balance sheet and a report for the Guardianship Agency. He did very precisely what she had demanded: the reports had not a grain of truth in them and made plain that she no longer needed a guardian.

Each report was an excruciating reminder of her existence, but he had no choice. Bjurman had spent the summer and the autumn in helpless, furious brooding. And then, in December, he pulled himself together and went on a vacation to France. While there, he consulted a specialist at a clinic for cosmetic surgery outside Marseilles about how best to remove the tattoo.

The specialist had examined his abdomen with ill-concealed astonishment. At last he recommended a course of action. One way would be laser treatment, he said, but the tattoo was so extensive and the needle had penetrated so deeply that he was afraid the only realistic solution was a series of skin grafts.

It would be expensive and would take time. In the past two years Bjurman had seen Salander on only one occasion. On the night she attacked him and established control over his life, she had taken the spare set of keys to his office and apartment.

She would be watching him, she had told him, and when he least expected it she would drop in. He had almost begun to believe it was an empty threat, but he had not dared to change the locks. Her warning had been unmistakable—if she ever found him in bed with a woman, Salander would make public the ninety-minute video that documented how he had raped her. In January a year ago he had woken at a. He turned on his bedside light and almost howled in fright when he saw her standing at the foot of his bed.

She was like a ghost suddenly there. Her face was pale and expressionless. In her hand she held her fucking Taser. While I slept? He could not tell whether she was bluffing. Bjurman cleared his throat and was about to speak. She cut him off with a gesture.

Send them to this hotmail address. Is that understood? He had not dared to try to reach her, since she had threatened to send the video to the authorities if he did. Instead he had thought for months what he would say to her when eventually she contacted him. He really had nothing he could say in his defence. All he could do was appeal to her humanity. He would try to convince her—if she would only give him a chance to speak—that he had done it in a fit of insanity, that he was utterly sorry for it and wanted to make amends.

He would grovel if that would convince her, if he could only somehow defuse the threat that she posed. Then she put one foot on the bottom of the bed and stared at him in disgust. I have no reason to forgive you. You fail, and the video goes to the agency. You contact me in any way other than I tell you to, then I make the video public. I die in an accident, the video will be made public.

You ever touch me again, I will kill you. The day I set you free, you can do as you like. But until that day you will not set foot again in that clinic in Marseilles.

The next moment she was gone. He heard a faint click as she turned the front-door key. It was as if a ghost had paid him a visit. At that instant he began to loathe Lisbeth Salander with an intensity that blazed like red-hot steel in his brain and transformed his life into an obsession to crush her.

He fantasized about killing her. He toyed with fantasies of having her crawl at his feet and beg him for mercy. But he would be merciless. He would put his hands around her throat and strangle her until she gasped for air. He wanted to tear her eyes from their sockets and her heart from her chest. He wanted to erase her from the earth.

Paradoxically, it was at this same moment that he felt as though he had begun to function again, and he discovered in himself a surprising emotional balance.

He was obsessed with the woman and she was on his mind every waking minute. But he had begun to think rationally again. If he was going to find a way of destroying her, he would have to get his head in order. His life settled on a new objective. He stopped fantasizing about her death and began planning for it.

Neither he nor Berger had ever heard of Nils Bjurman, so neither was aware of his being there. Berger frowned and moved an ashtray aside to make room for her glass. Blomkvist hung his jacket over the back of his chair, slid the ashtray over to his side of the table, and lit a cigarette.

Berger detested cigarette smoke and gave him a furious look. He turned his head to blow the smoke away from her. Berger rolled her eyes. Naturally I expect you to behave like a gentleman. Probably a little hero worship. If I were twenty years younger I might not have even hesitated. Over the past year he had received invitations to the most improbable places, parties, and events. He was greeted with air kisses from all sorts of people he had hardly shaken hands with before. They were not primarily media people—he knew all of them already and was on either good or bad terms with them—but so-called cultural figures and B-list celebrities now wanted to appear as though they were his close friends.

Now it was the thing to have Mikael Blomkvist as your guest at a launch party or a private dinner. One downside of his star status was an increasing rash of rumours. An acquaintance had mentioned with concern that he heard a rumour claiming that Blomkvist had been seen at a rehab clinic.

As to alcohol, he was only ever seriously intoxicated at private dinners or parties. In a bar he would seldom have more than one large, strong beer. He also liked to drink medium-strong beer. His drinks cabinet at home had vodka and a few bottles of single malt Scotch, all presents. It was absurd how rarely he indulged in them.

Blomkvist was single. The fact that he had occasional affairs was known both inside and outside his circle of friends, and that had led to further rumours. His longlasting affair with Erika Berger was frequently the subject of speculation. An obscure journalist had once even urged him to seek help for his sex addiction. Blomkvist had indeed had many brief relationships. He knew he was reasonably good-looking, but he had never considered himself exceptionally attractive.

But he had often been told that he had something that made women interested in him. Berger had told him that he radiated self-confidence and security at the same time, that he had an ability to make women feel at ease.

Going to bed with him was not threatening or complicated, but it might be erotically enjoyable. And that, according to Blomkvist, was as it should be.

Most astonishing were the young women who made impulsive advances in unexpected circumstances. But Blomkvist was not turned on by teenagers with miniskirts and perfect bodies. When he was younger his women friends had often been older than he—in some cases considerably older—and more experienced. Over time the age difference had evened out. Salander had definitely been a step in the other direction. And this was the reason for his hastily called meeting with Berger.

This was nothing unusual; they had several interns each year. She did not miss an opportunity to be in close contact with him. He pretended not to notice her blatant advances, but that only induced her to redouble her efforts.

Quite simply, it was becoming tiresome. Berger burst out laughing. She knows damned well how to express herself. She rang your doorbell last night—is that the extent of it? Besides, he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to pay attention to his surroundings.

Ever since the lifting of his mental paralysis, he had been continuously circling round and round the same conundrum. Salander had in her possession a video of his assault on her which she had recorded with a hidden camera. She had made him watch the video. There was no room for favourable interpretations. If it ever got to the Guardianship Agency, or, God forbid, if it ended up in the hands of the media, his career, his freedom, and his life would be over.

He knew the penalties for aggravated rape, exploitation of a person in a subordinate position, abuse and aggravated abuse; he reckoned he would get at least six years in prison. A zealous prosecutor might use one section of the video as the basis for a charge of attempted murder.

He had all but asphyxiated her during the rape when he had excitedly pressed a pillow over her face. He devoutly wished he had finished the job. They would not accept that she was the whole time playing a game.

She had provoked him to rape her. They would never see that she had in fact put on a performance. She had planned… The first thing he would have to do was to gain possession of the video and make sure somehow that there were no copies. That was the crux of the problem. There was no doubt in his mind that a witch like Salander would have made enemies over the years. Here Bjurman had an advantage. Unlike anyone else who might try to get at her, he had access to all her medical records, welfare reports, and psychiatric assessments.

He was one of the very few people in Sweden who knew her secrets. He had read the file over and over. As a lawyer he was well practiced in extracting information from the records of public authorities. As her guardian he was able to penetrate the layers of confidentiality surrounding her medical records. He could get hold of every document he wanted that dealt with Salander. He had discussed her condition with Dr.

Jesper H. Everyone was helpful. He found a real gold mine of information in the form of two notebooks in a box gathering dust in the archive of the Guardianship Agency. Palmgren had conscientiously submitted a report each year to the agency, and Bjurman supposed Salander had probably not known that Palmgren also made meticulous notes for himself. They were the originals.


There was no indication that copies had ever been made. Bjurman learned from these notes that Salander was by no means a slow-witted office junior who did the photocopying and made coffee. Salander seemed to have only two friends in her life. Palmgren was out of the picture now. Armansky remained, and could possibly be a threat.

Bjurman decided to steer clear of Armansky. The notebooks had explained a lot. Bjurman understood how Salander had discovered so much about him. He could not for the life of him see how she had found out about his visit to the plastic surgery clinic in France, but much of the mystery surrounding her had vanished.

He at once took fresh precautions with his own investigations and decided that since Salander had access to his apartment, it was not a good idea to keep any papers there that dealt with her case.What he had done—he, a fifty-five-year-old lawyer—was reprehensible, indefensible by any standard. His ice-blue eyes, however, were not remotely gentle. She looked up when the man from room 32 stood and walked towards the exit. And even more shocking for Blomkvist: the fingerprints found on the murder weapon belong to Lisbeth Salander—the troubled, wise-beyond-her-years genius hacker who came to his aid in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and who now becomes the focus and fierce heart of The Girl Who Played with Fire.

And that was a trifling length of time, considering that Fermat had driven mathematicians crazy for almost four hundred years before an Englishman named Andrew Wiles succeeded in unravelling the puzzle, as recently as It could be a real bad weekend.

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