Salander was surfing through Wennerstr?m’s cyber-empire. She had been staring at her computer screen for almost eleven hours. The idea that had materialised in some unexplored nook of her brain during the last week at Sandhamn had grown into a manic preoccupation. For four weeks she had isolated1 herself in her apartment and ignored any communication from Armansky. She had spent twelve hours a day in front of her computer, some days more, and the rest of her waking hours she had brooded over the same problem.
During the past month she had had intermittent2 contact with Blomkvist. He too was preoccupied3, busy at the Millennium4 offices. They had conferred by telephone a couple of times each week, and she had kept him updated on Wennerstr?m’s correspondence and other activities.
For the hundredth time she went over every detail. She was not afraid that she had missed anything, but she was not sure that she had understood how every one of the intricate connections fitted together.
This much-discussed empire was like a living, formless, pulsating5 organism that kept changing shape. It consisted of options, bonds, shares, partnerships6, loan interest, income interest, deposits, bank accounts, payment transfers, and thousands of other elements. An incredibly large proportion of the assets was deposited in post-office-box companies that owned one another.
The financial pundits’ most inflated8 analyses of the Wennerstr?m Group estimated its value at more than 900 billion kronor. That was a bluff9, or at least a figure that was grossly exaggerated. Obviously Wennerstr?m himself was by no means poor. She calculated the real assets to be worth between 90 and 100 billion kronor, which was nothing to sneez eat. A thorough audit10 of the entire corporation would take years. All in all Salander had identified close to three thousand separate accounts and bank holdings all over the world. Wennerstr?m was devoting himself to fraud that was so extensive it was no longer merely criminal—it was business.
Somewhere in the Wennerstr?m organism there was also substance. Three assets kept showing up in the hierarchy11. The fixed12 Swedish assets were unassailable and genuine, available to public scrutiny13, balance sheets, and audits14. The American firm was solid, and a bank in New York served as the base for all liquid capital. The story was in the business with the post-office-box companies in places such as Gibraltar and Cyprus and Macao. Wennerstr?m was like a clearing house for the illegal weapons trade, money laundering15 for suspect enterprises in Colombia, and extremely unorthodox businesses in Russia.
An anonymous16 account in the Cayman Islands was unique; it was personally controlled by Wennerstr?m but was not connected to any companies. A few hundredths of a percent of every deal that Wennerstr?m made would be siphoned into the Cayman Islands via the post-office-box companies.
Salander worked in a trance-like state. The account—click—email—click—balance sheets—click. She noted18 down the latest transfers. She tracked a small transaction in Japan to Singapore and on via Luxembourg to the Cayman Islands. She understood how it worked. It was as if she were part of the impulses in cyberspace19. Small changes. The latest email. One brief message of somewhat peripheral20 interest was sent at 10:00 p.m. The PGP encryption programme (rattle, rattle) was a joke for anyone who was already inside his computer and could read the message in plain text:
Berger has stopped arguing about the ads. Has she given up or does she have something cooking? Your source at the editorial offices assured us that they were on the brink21 of ruin, but it sounds as if they just hired a new person. Find out what’s happening. Blomkvist has been working at Sandhamn for the past few weeks, but no-one knows what he’s writing. He’s been seen at the editorial offices the past few days. Can you arrange for an advance copy of the next issue?/HEW/
Nothing dramatic. Let him worry. Your goose is cooked, old man.
At 5:30 in the morning she turned off her computer and got out a new pack of cigarettes. She had drunk four, no, five Cokes during the night, and now she got out a sixth and went to sit on the sofa. She was wearing only knickers and a washed-out camouflage22 shirt advertising23 Soldier of Fortune magazine, with the slogan KILL THEM ALL AND LET GOD SORT THEM OUT. She realised that she was cold, so she reached for a blanket, which she wrapped around herself.
She felt high, as if she had consumed some inappropriate and presumably illegal substance. She focused her gaze on the street lamp outside the window and sat still while her brain worked at top speed. Mamma—click—sister—click—Mimmi—click—Holger Palmgren. Evil Fingers. And Armansky. The job. Harriet Vanger. Click. Martin Vanger. Click. The golf club. Click. The lawyer Bjurman. Click. Every single fucking detail that she couldn’t forget even if she tried.
She wondered whether Bjurman would ever take his clothes off in front of a woman again, and if he did, how was he going to explain the tattoos25 on his stomach? And the next time he went to the doctor how would he avoid taking off his clothes?
And Mikael Blomkvist. Click.
She considered him to be a good person, possibly with a Practical Pig complex that was sometimes a little too apparent. And he was unbearably26 naive27 with regard to certain elementary moral issues. He had an indulgent and forgiving personality that looked for explanations and excuses for the way people behaved, and he would never get it that the raptors of the world understood only one language. She felt almost awkwardly protective whenever she thought of him.
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 tottered28 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 scoop29 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 Wennerstr?m 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 eyebrows30.
“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?”
“I’d like to discuss it over coffee. Right now.”
They met at Kaffebar on Hornsgatan. Salander looked so serious when Blomkvist sat down on the bench next to her that he felt a pang32 of concern. As usual, she came straight to the point.
“I need to borrow some money.”
Blomkvist gave her one of his most foolish grins and reached for his wallet.
“Sure. How much?”
“120,000 kronor.”
“Steady, steady.” He put his wallet away.
“I’m not kidding. I need to borrow 120,000 kronor for…let’s say six weeks. I have a chance to make an investment, but I don’t have anyone else to turn to. You’ve got roughly 140,000 kronor in your current account right now. You’ll get your money back.”
No point commenting on the fact that Salander had hacked33 his bank password.
“You don’t have to borrow the money from me,” he replied. “We haven’t discussed your share yet, but it’s more than enough to cover what you want to borrow.”
“My share?”
“Lisbeth, I have an insane fee to cash in from Henrik Vanger, and we’re going to finalise the deal at the end of the year. Without you, there wouldn’t be a me and Millennium would have gone under. I’m planning to split the fee with you. Fifty-fifty.”
Salander gave him a searching look. A frown had appeared on her brow. Blomkvist was used to her silences. Finally she shook her head.
“I don’t want your money.”
“But…”
“I don’t want one single krona from you, unless it comes in the form of presents on my birthday.”
“Come to think of it, I don’t even know when your birthday is.”
“You’re a journalist. Check it out.”
“I’m serious, Lisbeth. About splitting the money.”
“I’m serious too. I only want to borrow it, and I need it tomorrow.”
She didn’t even ask how much her share would be. “I’ll be happy to go to the bank with you today and lend you the amount you need. But at the end of the year let’s have another talk about your share.” He held up his hand. “And by the way, when is your birthday?”
“On Walpurgis Night,” she replied. “Very fitting, don’t you think? That’s when I gad34 around with a broom between my legs.”
She landed in Zürich at 7:30 in the evening and took a taxi to the Matterhorn Hotel. She had booked a room under the name of Irene Nesser, and she identified herself using a Norwegian passport in that name. Irene Nesser had shoulder-length blonde hair. Salander had bought a wig35 in Stockholm and used 10,000 kronor of what she had borrowed from Blomkvist to buy two passports through one of the contacts in Plague’s international network.
She went to her room, locked the door, and got undressed. She lay on the bed and looked up at the ceiling in the room that cost 1,600 kronor per night. She felt empty. She had already run through half the sum she’d borrowed, and even though she had added in every krona of her own savings36, she was still on a tight budget. She stopped thinking and fell asleep almost at once.
She awoke just after 5:00 in the morning. She showered and spent a long time masking the tattoo24 on her neck with a thick layer of skin-coloured lotion37 and powder over it. The second item on her checklist was to make an appointment at the beauty salon38 in the lobby of a significantly more expensive hotel for 6:30 that morning. She bought another blonde wig, this one in a page-boy style, and then she had a manicure, getting pink nails attached to her own chewed ones. She also got false eyelashes, more powder, rouge39, and finally lipstick40 and other make-up. No change from 8,000 kronor.
She paid with a credit card in the name of Monica Sholes, and she showed them her British passport with that name.
Next stop was Camille’s House of Fashion down the street. After an hour she came out wearing black boots, a sand-coloured skirt with matching blouse, black tights, a waist-length jacket, and a beret. Every item bore an expensive designer label. She had let the sales girl make the selection. She had also chosen an exclusive leather briefcase41 and a small Samsonite suitcase. The crowning touches were discreet42 earrings43 and a simple gold chain around her neck. The credit card had been debited44 44,000 kronor.
For the first time in her life Salander had a bustline that made her—when she glanced at herself in the full-length mirror—catch her breath. The breasts were as fake as Monica Sholes’ identity. They were made of latex and had been bought in Copenhagen where the transvestites shopped.
She was ready for battle.
Just after 9:00 she walked two blocks to the venerable Zimmertal Hotel, where she booked a room in Monica Sholes’ name. She gave a generous tip to a boy who carried up her suitcase (which contained her travel bag). The suite45 was a small one, costing 22,000 kronor a day. She had booked it for one night. When she was alone she took a look around. She had a dazzling view of Lake Zürich, which didn’t interest her in the least. But she did spend close to five minutes examining herself in the mirror. She saw a total stranger. Big-busted Monica Sholes in a blonde page-boy wig, wearing more make-up than Lisbeth Salander dreamed of using in a whole month. She looked…different.
At 9:30 she had breakfast in the hotel bar: two cups of coffee and a bagel with jam. The cost was 210 kronor. Are these people soft in the head?
Just before 10:00 Monica Sholes set down her coffee cup, opened her mobile, and punched in the number of a modem46 uplink in Hawaii. After three rings, the handshaking tone began. The modem was connected. Monica Sholes replied by punching in a six-digit code on her mobile and texting a message containing instructions to start a programme that Salander had written especially for this purpose.
In Honolulu the programme came to life on an anonymous home page on a server that was officially located at the university. The programme was simple. Its only function was to send instructions to start another programme in another server, which in this case was a perfectly47 ordinary commercial ISP offering Internet services in Holland. The function of that programme, in turn, was to look for the mirrored hard drive belonging to Hans-Erik Wennerstr?m and take command of the programme that showed the contents of his approximately 3,000 bank accounts around the world.
There was only one account of any interest. Salander had noted that Wennerstr?m looked at the account a couple of times each week. If he turned on his computer and looked at that particular file, everything would appear to be normal. The programme showed small changes, which were to be expected, based on normal fluctuations49 in the account during the past six months. If during the next forty-eight hours Wennerstr?m should go in and ask to have the funds paid out or moved from the account, the programme would dutifully report that it had been done. In reality, the change would have occurred only on the mirrored hard drive in Holland.
Monica Sholes switched off her mobile the moment she heard four short tones confirming that the programme had started.
She left the Zimmertal Hotel and walked over to Bank Hauser General, across the street, where she had made an appointment to see Herr Wagner, the general manager, at 10:00. She was there three minutes ahead of schedule, and she spent the waiting time posing in front of the surveillance camera, which took her picture as she walked into the department with offices for discreet private consultations51.
“I need some assistance with a number of transactions,” she said in Oxford52 English. When she opened her briefcase, she let drop a pen from the Zimmertal Hotel, and Herr Wagner politely retrieved53 it for her. She gave him an arch smile and wrote an account number on the notepad on the desk in front of her.
Herr Wagner pigeonholed54 her as the spoiled daughter, or possibly mistress, of some bigshot.
“There are a number of accounts at the Bank of Kroenenfeld in the Cayman Islands. Automatic transfer can be done by sequential clearing codes,” she said.
“Fr?ulein Sholes, naturally you have all the required clearing codes?” he asked.
“Aber natürlich,” she replied with such a heavy accent that it was obvious she had only school-level German.
She started reciting several series of sixteen-digit numbers without once referring to any papers. Herr Wagner saw that it was going to be a long morning, but for a 4 percent commission on the transactions, he was prepared to skip lunch, and he was going to have to revise his pigeonhole55 for Fr?ulein Sholes.
She did not leave Bank Hauser General until just past noon, slightly later than planned, and she walked back to the Zimmertal. She put in an appearance at the front desk before she went up to her room and took off the clothes she had bought. She kept on the latex breasts but replaced the page-boy wig with Irene Nesser’s shoulder-length blonde hair. She put on more familiar clothes: boots with stiletto heels, black trousers, a simple shirt, and a nice black leather jacket from Malungsboden in Stockholm. She studied herself in the mirror. Not unkempt by any means, but she was no longer an heiress. Before Irene Nesser left the room, she sorted through a number of bonds, which she placed inside a thin portfolio56.
At 1:05, a few minutes behind schedule, she went into Bank Dorffmann, about seventy yards away from Bank Hauser General. Irene Nesser had made an appointment in advance with a Herr Hasselmann. She apologised for being late. She spoke57 impeccable German with a Norwegian accent.
“No problem at all, Fr?ulein,” Herr Hasselmann said. “How can I be of service?”
“I would like to open an account. I have a number of private bonds that I’d like to convert.”
Irene Nesser placed her portfolio on the desk in front of him.
Herr Hasselmann examined the contents, hastily at first, and then more slowly. He raised an eyebrow31 and smiled politely.
She opened five numbered accounts, which she could access via the Internet and which were owned by an apparently58 anonymous post-office-box company in Gibraltar. A broker59 had set them up for her for 50,000 kronor of the money she had borrowed from Blomkvist. She cashed in fifty of the bonds and deposited the money in the accounts. Each bond was worth the equivalent of one million kronor.
Her business at the Bank Dorffmann also took more time than expected, so now she was even more behind on her schedule. She had no chance to take care of her final transactions before the banks closed for the day. So Irene Nesser returned to the Matterhorn Hotel, where she spent an hour hanging around to establish her presence. But she had a headache and went to bed early. She bought some aspirin60 at the front desk and ordered a wake-up call for 8:00 a.m. Then she went back to her room.
It was close to 5:00 p.m., and all the banks in Europe were closed for business. But the banks in North and South America were open. She booted up her PowerBook and uplinked to the Net through her mobile. She spent an hour emptying the numbered accounts she had opened at Bank Dorffmann earlier in the day.
She divided the money up into small amounts and used it to pay invoices61 for a large number of fictional62 companies around the world. When she was done, the money had strangely enough been transferred back to the Bank of Kroenenfeld in the Cayman Islands, but this time to an entirely63 different account than the one from which it had been withdrawn64 earlier that day.
Irene Nesser considered this first stage to be secure and almost impossible to trace. She made one payment from the account: the sum of nearly one million kronor was deposited into an account linked to a credit card that she had in her wallet. The account was owned by Wasp65 Enterprises, registered in Gibraltar.
Several minutes later a girl with blonde page-boy hair left the Matterhorn by a door into the hotel bar. Monica Sholes walked to the Zimmertal Hotel, nodded politely to the desk clerk, and took the lift up to her room.
There she took her time putting on Monica Sholes’ combat uniform, touching66 up her make-up, and applying an extra layer of skin cream to the tattoo before she went down to the hotel restaurant and had an insanely delicious fish dinner. She ordered a bottle of vintage wine that she had never heard of before though it cost 1,200 kronor, drank one glass, and nonchalantly left the rest before she went into the hotel bar. She left absurd tips, which certainly made the staff notice her.
She spent quite a while allowing herself to be picked up by a drunk young Italian with an aristocratic name which she did not bother to remember. They shared two bottles of champagne67, of which she drank almost one glass.
Around 11:00 her intoxicated68 suitor leaned forward and boldly squeezed her breast. She moved his hand down to the table, feeling pleased. He did not seem to have noticed that he was squeezing soft latex. At times they were so loud that they caused a certain amount of irritation69 among the other guests. Just before midnight, when Monica Sholes noticed that a hall porter was keeping a stern eye on them, she helped her Italian boyfriend up to his room.
When he went to the bathroom, she poured one last glass of wine. She opened a folded piece of paper and spiked70 the wine with a crushed Rohypnol sleeping tablet. He passed out in a miserable71 heap on the bed within a minute after she drank a toast with him. She loosened his tie, pulled off his shoes, and drew a cover over him. She wiped the bottle clean, then washed the glasses in the bathroom and wiped them off too before going back to her room.
Monica Sholes had breakfast in her room at 6:00 and checked out of the Zimmertal at 6:55. Before leaving her room, she spent five minutes wiping off fingerprints72 from the door handles, wardrobes, toilet, telephone, and other objects in the room that she had touched.
Irene Nesser checked out of the Matterhorn around 8:30, shortly after the wake-up call. She took a taxi and left her luggage in a locker73 at the railway station. Then she spent the next few hours visiting nine private banks, where she distributed some of the private bonds from the Cayman Islands. By 3:00 in the afternoon she had converted about 10 percent of the bonds into cash, which she deposited in thirty numbered accounts. The rest of the bonds she bundled up and put in a safe-deposit box.
Irene Nesser would need to make several more visits to Zürich, but there was no immediate74 hurry.
At 4:30 that afternoon Irene Nesser took a taxi to the airport, where she went into the ladies’ room and cut up Monica Sholes’ passport into little pieces, flushing them down the toilet. The credit card she also cut up and put the bits in five different rubbish bins75, and the scissors too. After September 11 it was not a good idea to attract attention by having any sharp objects in your baggage.
Irene Nesser took Lufthansa flight GD890 to Oslo and caught the airport bus to the Oslo train station, where she went into the ladies’ room and sorted through her clothes. She placed all items belonging to the Monica Sholes persona—the page-boy wig and the designer clothes—in three plastic bags and tossed them into three different rubbish containers and wastebaskets in the train station. She put the empty Samsonite suitcase in an unlocked locker. The gold chain and earrings were designer jewellery that could be traced; they disappeared down a drain in the street outside the station.
After a moment of anxious hesitation76, Irene Nesser decided77 to keep the fake latex breasts.
By then she did not have much time and took on some fuel in the form of a hamburger from McDonald’s while she transferred the contents of the luxury leather briefcase to her travel bag. When she left, the empty briefcase remained under the table. She bought a latte to go at a kiosk and ran to catch the night train to Stockholm. She arrived as the doors were closing. She had booked a private sleeping berth78.
When she locked the door to her compartment79, she could feel that for the first time in two days, her adrenaline levels had returned to normal. She opened the compartment window and defied the no-smoking regulations. She stood there sipping80 at her coffee as the train rolled out of Oslo.
She ran through her checklist to be sure that she had forgotten no detail. After a moment she frowned and rummaged81 through her jacket pockets. She took out the complimentary82 pen from the Zimmertal Hotel and studied it for several minutes before she tossed it out of the window.
After fifteen minutes she crept into bed and fell asleep.
EPILOGUE: FINAL AUDIT
Thursday, November 27–Tuesday, December 30
Millennium’s special report on Hans-Erik Wennerstr?m took up all of forty-six pages of the magazine and exploded like a time bomb the last week of November. The main story appeared under the joint83 byline84 of Mikael Blomkvist and Erika Berger. For the first few hours the media did not know how to handle the scoop. A similar story just a year earlier had resulted in Blomkvist being convicted of libel, and it had also apparently resulted in his being dismissed from Millennium. For that reason his credibility was regarded as rather low. Now the same magazine was back with a story by the same journalist containing much more serious allegations than the article for which he had run into so much trouble. Some parts of the report were so absurd that they defied common sense. The Swedish media sat and waited, filled with mistrust.
But that evening She on TV4 led off with an eleven-minute summary of the highlights in Blomkvist’s accusations85. Berger had lunched with the host several days earlier and given her an advance exclusive.
TV4’s brutal86 profile scooped87 the state-run news channels, which did not clamber on to the bandwagon until the 9:00 news. By then the TT wire service had also sent out its first wire with the cautious headline: CONVICTED JOURNALIST ACCUSES FINANCIER OF SERIOUS CRIME. The text was a rewrite of the TV story, but the fact that TT addressed the subject at all unleashed88 feverish89 activity at the Conservative morning newspaper and at a dozen of the larger regional papers as they reset91 their front pages before the presses started rolling. Up until then, the papers had more or less decided to ignore the Millennium allegations.
The Liberal morning newspaper commented on Millennium’s scoop in the form of an editorial, written personally by the editor in chief, earlier in the afternoon. The editor in chief then went to a dinner party as TV4 started broadcasting its news programme. He dismissed his secretary’s frantic92 calls that there “might be something” to Blomkvist’s claims with these later famous words: “Nonsense—if there were, our financial reporters would have found out about it long ago.” Consequently, the Liberal editor in chief’s editorial was the only media voice in the country that butchered Millennium’s claims. The editorial contained phrases such as: personal vendetta93, criminally sloppy94 journalism95, and demands that measures be taken against indictable allegations regarding decent citizens. But that was the only contribution the editor in chief made during the debate.
That night the Millennium editorial offices were fully50 staffed. According to their plans, only Berger and the new managing editor, Malin Eriksson, were due to be there to handle any calls. But by 10:00 p.m. the entire staff was still there, and they had also been joined by no fewer than four former staff members and half a dozen regular freelancers96. At midnight Malm opened a bottle of champagne. That was when an old acquaintance sent over an advance copy from one of the evening papers, which devoted97 sixteen pages to the Wennerstr?m affair under the headline THE FINANCIAL MAFIA. When the evening papers came out the next day, a media frenzy98 erupted, the likes of which had seldom been seen before.
Eriksson concluded that she was going to enjoy working at Millennium.
During the following week, the Swedish Stock Exchange trembled as the securities fraud police began investigating, prosecutors99 were called in, and a panicky selling spree set in. Two days after the publication the Minister of Commerce made a statement on “the Wennerstr?m affair.”
The frenzy did not mean, however, that the media swallowed Millennium’s claims without criticism—the revelations were far too serious for that. But unlike the first Wennerstr?m affair, this time Millennium could present a convincing burden of proof: Wennerstr?m’s own emails and copies of the contents of his computer, which contained balance sheets from secret bank assets in the Cayman Islands and two dozen other countries, secret agreements, and other blunders that a more cautious racketeer would never in his life have left on his hard drive. It soon became clear that if Millennium’s claims held up in a court of appeals—and everyone agreed that the case would end up there sooner or later—then it was by far the biggest bubble to burst in the Swedish financial world since the Kreuger crash of 1932. The Wennerstr?m affair made all the Gotabank imbroglios100 and Trustor frauds pale in comparison. This was fraud on such a grand scale that no-one even dared to speculate on how many laws had been broken.
For the first time in Swedish financial reporting, the terms “organised crime,” “Mafia,” and “gangster empire” were used. Wennerstr?m and his young stockbrokers101, partners, and Armani-clad lawyers emerged like a band of hoodlums.
During the first days of the media frenzy, Blomkvist was invisible. He did not answer his emails and could not be reached by telephone. All editorial comments on behalf of Millennium were made by Berger, who purred like a cat as she was interviewed by the Swedish national media and important regional newspapers, and eventually also by a growing number of overseas media. Each time she was asked how Millennium had come into possession of all those private and internal documents, she replied simply that she was unable to reveal the magazine’s source.
When she was asked why the previous year’s exposé of Wennerstr?m had been such a fiasco, she was even more delphic. She never lied, but she may not always have told the whole truth. Off the record, when she did not have a microphone under her nose, she would utter a few mysterious catch phrases, which, if pieced together, led to some rather rash conclusions. That is how a rumour103 was born that soon assumed legendary104 proportions, claiming that Mikael Blomkvist had not presented any sort of defence at his trial and had voluntarily submitted to the prison sentence and heavy fines because otherwise his documentation would have led inevitably105 to the identification of his source. He was compared to role models in the American media who had accepted gaol106 rather than reveal their sources, and Blomkvist was described as a hero in such ludicrously flattering terms that he was quite embarrassed. But this was no time to deny the misunderstanding.
There was one thing that everyone agreed on: the person who had delivered the documentation had to be someone within Wennerstr?m’s most trusted circle. This led to a debate about who the “Deep Throat” was: colleagues with reason to be dissatisfied, lawyers, even Wennerstr?m’s cocaine-addicted daughter and other family members were put up as possible candidates. Neither Blomkvist nor Berger commented on the subject.
Berger smiled happily, knowing that they had won when an evening paper on the third day of the frenzy ran the headline MILLENNIUM’S REVENGE. The article was an ingratiating portrait of the magazine and its staff, including illustrations with a particularly favourable107 portrait of Berger. She was named the “queen of investigative journalism.” That sort of thing won points in the rankings of the entertainment pages, and there was talk of the Big Journalism Prize.
Five days after Millennium fired the first salvo, Blomkvist’s book The Mafia Banker appeared in bookshops. The book had been written during those feverish days at Sandhamn in September and October, and in great haste and under the utmost secrecy108 it was printed by Hallvigs Reklam in Morgong?va. It was the first book to be published under Millennium’s own logo. It was eccentrically dedicated109: To Sally, who showed me the benefits of the sport of golf.
It was a brick of a book, 608 pages in paperback110. The first edition of 2,000 copies was virtually guaranteed to be a losing proposition, but the print run actually sold out in a couple of days, and Berger ordered 10,000 more copies.
The reviewers concluded that this time, at any rate, Mikael Blomkvist had no intention of holding back since it was a matter of publishing extensive source references. In this regard they were right. Two-thirds of the book consisted of appendices that were actual copies of the documentation from Wennerstr?m’s computer. At the same time as the book was published, Millennium put the texts from Wennerstr?m’s computer as source material in downloadable PDF files on their website.
Blomkvist’s extraordinary absence was part of the media strategy that he and Berger had put together. Every newspaper in the country was looking for him. Not until the book was launched did he give an exclusive interview to She on TV4, once again scooping111 the state-run stations. But the questions were anything but sycophantic112.
Blomkvist was especially pleased with one exchange when he watched a video of his appearance. The interview was broadcast live at the very moment when the Stockholm Stock Exchange found itself in freefall and a handful of financial yuppies were threatening to throw themselves out of windows. He was asked what was Millennium’s responsibility with regard to the fact that Sweden’s economy was now headed for a crash.
“The idea that Sweden’s economy is headed for a crash is nonsense,” Blomkvist said.
The host of She on TV4 looked perplexed113. His reply did not follow the pattern she had expected, and she was forced to improvise114. Blomkvist got the follow-up question he was hoping for. “We’re experiencing the largest single drop in the history of the Swedish stock exchange—and you think that’s nonsense?”
“You have to distinguish between two things—the Swedish economy and the Swedish stock market. The Swedish economy is the sum of all the goods and services that are produced in this country every day. There are telephones from Ericsson, cars from Volvo, chickens from Scan, and shipments from Kiruna to Sk?vde. That’s the Swedish economy, and it’s just as strong or weak today as it was a week ago.”
He paused for effect and took a sip17 of water.
“The Stock Exchange is something very different. There is no economy and no production of goods and services. There are only fantasies in which people from one hour to the next decide that this or that company is worth so many billions, more or less. It doesn’t have a thing to do with reality or with the Swedish economy.”
“So you’re saying that it doesn’t matter if the Stock Exchange drops like a rock?”
“No, it doesn’t matter at all,” Blomkvist said in a voice so weary and resigned that he sounded like some sort of oracle115. His words would be quoted many times over the following year. Then he went on.
“It only means that a bunch of heavy speculators are now moving their shareholdings from Swedish companies to German ones. So it’s the financial gnomes116 that some tough reporter should identify and expose as traitors117. They’re the ones who are systematically118 and perhaps deliberately119 damaging the Swedish economy in order to satisfy the profit interests of their clients.”
Then She on TV4 made the mistake of asking exactly the question that Blomkvist had hoped for.
“And so you think that the media don’t have any responsibility?”
“Oh yes, the media do have an enormous responsibility. For at least twenty years many financial reporters have refrained from scrutinising Hans-Erik Wennerstr?m. On the contrary, they have actually helped to build up his prestige by publishing brainless, idolatrous portraits. If they had been doing their work properly, we would not find ourselves in this situation today.”
Blomkvist’s appearance marked a turning point. In hindsight, Berger was convinced that it was only when Blomkvist went on TV and calmly defended his claims that the Swedish media, in spite of the fact that Millennium had been all over the headlines for a week, recognised that the story really did hold up. His attitude set the course for the story.
After the interview the Wennerstr?m affair imperceptibly slipped from the financial section over to the desks of the crime reporters. In the past, ordinary crime reporters had seldom or never written about financial crime, except if it had to do with the Russian mob or Yugoslav cigarette smugglers. Crime reporters were not expected to investigate intricate dealings on the Stock Exchange. One evening paper even took Blomkvist at his word and filled two spreads with portraits of several of the brokerage houses’ most important players, who were in the process of buying up German securities. The paper’s headline read SELLING OUT THEIR COUNTRY. All the brokers102 were invited to comment on the allegations. Every one of them declined. But the trading of shares decreased significantly that day, and some brokers who wanted to look like progressive patriots122 started going against the stream. Blomkvist burst out laughing.
The pressure got to be so great that sombre men in dark suits put on a concerned expression and broke with the most important rule of the exclusive club that made up the innermost circles of Swedish finance—they commented on a colleague. All of a sudden retired123 industrial leaders and bank presidents were appearing on TV and answering questions in an attempt at damage control. Everyone realised the seriousness of the situation, and it was a matter of distancing themselves as quickly as possible from the Wennerstr?m Group and shedding any shares they might hold. Wennerstr?m (they concluded almost with one voice) was not, after all, a real industrialist124, and he had never been truly accepted into “the club.” Some pointed125 out that he was just a simple working-class boy from Norrland whose success may have gone to his head. Some described his actions as a personal tragedy. Others discovered that they had had their doubts about Wennerstr?m for years—he was too boastful and he put on airs.
During the following weeks, as Millennium’s documentation was scrutinised, pulled apart, and pieced together again, the Wennerstr?m empire of obscure companies was linked to the heart of the international Mafia, including everything from illegal arms dealing121 and money laundering for South American drug cartels to prostitution in New York, and even indirectly126 to the child sex trade in Mexico. One Wennerstr?m company registered in Cyprus caused a dramatic stir when it was revealed that it had attempted to buy enriched uranium on the black market in Ukraine. Wennerstr?m’s apparently inexhaustible supply of obscure post-office-box companies seemed to be cropping up everywhere, linked to all manner of shady enterprises.
Berger thought that the book was the best thing Blomkvist had ever written. It was uneven127 stylistically, and in places the writing was actually rather poor—there had been no time for any fine polishing—but the book was animated128 by a fury that no reader could help but notice.
By chance Blomkvist ran into his old adversary129, the former financial reporter William Borg, in front of Kvarnen when Blomkvist, Berger, and Malm took the evening off to celebrate the Santa Lucia holiday along with the magazine’s other employees, going out to drink themselves senseless at the company’s expense. Borg’s companion was a very drunk girl about Salander’s age.
Blomkvist’s loathing130 for Borg was palpable. Berger interrupted the macho posturing131 by taking Blomkvist by the arm and leading him into the bar.
Blomkvist decided that when the opportunity arose, he would ask Salander to do one of her personal investigations132 of Borg. Just for form’s sake.
During the whole media storm the main character in the drama, the financier Wennerstr?m, was for the most part invisible. On the day that Millennium published its article, the financier was forced to comment on the text at a press conference that had been called for a different purpose. He declared the allegations unfounded and said that the documentation referred to was fabricated. He reminded everyone that the same reporter had been convicted of libel only one year before.
After that only Wennerstr?m’s lawyers would answer questions from the media. Two days after Blomkvist’s book came out, a persistent133 rumour began circulating that Wennerstr?m had left Sweden. The evening papers used the word “fled.” During the second week, when the securities fraud police tried to contact Wennerstr?m, he was nowhere to be found. In mid-December the police confirmed that Wennerstr?m was formally sought, and on the day before New Year’s Eve, an all-points bulletin was sent out via the international police organisations. The very same day one of Wennerstr?m’s advisers134 was seized at Arlanda as he was boarding a plane for London.
Several weeks later a Swedish tourist reported that he had seen Wennerstr?m get into a car in Bridgetown, the capital of Barbados. As proof of his claim, the tourist submitted a photograph, taken from quite a distance away, showing a white man wearing sunglasses, an open white shirt, and light-coloured slacks. He could not be identified with certainty, but the evening papers contacted stringers who tried without success to track down the fugitive136 billionaire.
After six months the hunt was called off. Then Wennerstr?m was found dead in an apartment in Marbella, Spain, where he had been living under the name of Victor Fleming. He had been shot three times in the head at close range. The Spanish police were working on the theory, their statement said, that he had surprised a burglar.
Wennerstr?m’s death came as no surprise to Salander. She suspected, with good reason, that his demise137 had to do with the fact that he no longer had access to the money in a certain bank in the Cayman Islands, which he may have needed to pay off certain debts in Colombia.
If anyone had asked for Salander’s help in tracking Wennerstr?m, she could have told them almost on a daily basis where he was. Via the Internet she had followed his flight through a dozen countries and remarked a growing desperation in his emails. Not even Blomkvist would have thought that the fugitive ex-billionaire would be stupid enough to take along the computer that had been so thoroughly138 penetrated139.
After six months Salander grew tired of tracking Wennerstr?m. The question that remained to be answered was how far her own involvement should reach. Wennerstr?m was without a doubt an Olympic-class creep, but he was not her personal enemy, and she had no interest in involving herself against him. She could tip off Blomkvist, but he would probably just publish a story. She could tip off the police, but there was quite a chance that Wennerstr?m would be forewarned and again disappear. Besides, on principle, she did not talk to the police.
But there were other debts that had to be paid. She thought about the once-pregnant waitress whose head had been shoved underwater in her own bath.
Four days before Wennerstr?m’s body was found, she made up her mind. She switched on her mobile and called a lawyer in Miami, who seemed to be one of the people Wennerstr?m was making a big effort to hide from. She talked to a secretary and asked her to pass on a cryptic141 message. The name Wennerstr?m and an address in Marbella. That was all.
She turned off the TV news halfway142 through a dramatic report about Wennerstr?m’s demise. She put on some coffee and fixed herself a liver paté and cucumber sandwich.
Berger and Malm were taking care of the annual Christmas arrangements while Blomkvist sat in Erika’s chair, drinking gl?gg and looking on. All the staff and many of the regular freelancers would receive a Christmas gift—this year a shoulder bag with the new Millennium publishing house logo. After wrapping the presents, they sat down to write and stamp about 200 cards to send to printing companies, photographers, and media colleagues.
Blomkvist tried for the longest time to withstand the temptation but finally he couldn’t resist. He picked up the very last card and wrote: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Thanks for your splendid efforts during the past year.
He signed his name and addressed the card to Janne Dahlman, c/o the editorial offices of Monopoly Financial Magazine.
When Blomkvist got home that evening there was a slip notifying him of a postal143 package. He went to pick it up the next morning, opening it when he got to the office. The package contained a mosquito-repellent stick and a bottle of Reimersholms aquavit. The card read: If you don’t have other plans, I’ll be docked at Arholma on Midsummer Eve. It was signed Robert Lindberg.
Traditionally the Millennium offices were closed the week before Christmas and through the New Year’s holiday. This year it did not work out that way. The strain on the small staff had been enormous, and journalists were still calling from all over the world on a daily basis. It was the day before Christmas Eve when Blomkvist, almost by chance, happened to read an article in the Financial Times summing up the findings of the international banking144 commission that had been established in all haste to scrutinise the collapse145 of the Wennerstr?m empire. The article said that the commission was working on the hypothesis that Wennerstr?m had probably been tipped off at the last minute about the impending146 disclosures.
His account at Bank of Kroenenfeld in the Cayman Islands, containing $260 million—approximately 2.5 billion Swedish kronor—had been emptied the day before Millennium published its exposé.
The money had been spread over a number of accounts, and only Wennerstr?m personally could make withdrawals147. He did not have to be present at the bank; it was enough for him to present a series of clearing codes in order to transfer the money to any bank in the world. The money had been transferred to Switzerland, where a female associate had converted the funds into anonymous private bonds. All the clearing codes were in order.
Europol had launched a search for the woman who had used a stolen British passport in the name of Monica Sholes and who was said to have lived a life of luxury at one of Zürich’s most expensive hotels. A relatively148 clear picture, considering that it came from a surveillance camera, showed a short woman with a blonde page-boy, wide lips, and prominent breasts wearing fashionable designer clothes and gold jewellery.
Blomkvist studied the picture, giving it first a quick glance and then looking at it with increasing suspicion. After several seconds he rummaged in his desk for a magnifying glass and tried to make out the details of the facial features in the newspaper’s screened image.
At last he put down the paper and sat there, speechless, for several minutes. Then he started laughing so hysterically149 that Malm stuck his head round the door to find out what was going on.
On the morning of Christmas Eve Blomkvist went out to ?rsta to see his ex-wife and his daughter, Pernilla, and exchange gifts. Pernilla got the computer she wanted, which Blomkvist and Monica had bought together. Blomkvist got a tie from Monica and a detective novel by ?ke Edwardson from his daughter. Unlike the previous Christmas, they were in high spirits because of the media drama that had been playing out around Millennium.
They had lunch together. Blomkvist stole a sidelong glance at Pernilla. He had not seen his daughter since she turned up to visit him in Hedestad. He realised that he had failed to discuss her mania150 for that sect120 in Skellefte? with her mother. He could not tell them that it was his daughter’s obviously profound knowledge of the Bible that had set him on the right track regarding Harriet Vanger’s disappearance151. He had not talked to his daughter since then.
He was not a good father.
He kissed his daughter goodbye after the lunch and met Salander at Slussen. They went out to Sandhamn. They had not seen much of each other since the Millennium bomb exploded. They arrived late on Christmas Eve and stayed for the holidays.
Blomkvist was entertaining company, as always, but Salander had an uneasy feeling that he was looking at her with an especially odd expression when she paid back the loan with a cheque for 120,000 kronor.
They took a walk to Trovill and back (which Salander considered a waste of time), had Christmas dinner at the inn, and went back to the cabin where they lit a fire in the woodstove, put on an Elvis CD, and devoted themselves to some plain old sex. When Salander from time to time came up for air, she tried to analyse her feelings.
She had no problem with Blomkvist as a lover. There was obviously a physical attraction. And he never tried to tutor her.
Her problem was that she could not interpret her own feelings for him. Not since before reaching puberty had she lowered her guard to let another person get so close as she had with him. To be quite honest, he had a trying ability to penetrate140 her defences and to get her to talk about personal matters and private feelings. Even though she had enough sense to ignore most of his questions, she talked about herself in a way that she would never, even under threat of death, have imagined doing with any other person. It frightened her and made her feel naked and vulnerable to his will.
At the same time—when she looked down at his slumbering152 form and listened to him snoring—she felt that she had never before in her life had such a trust in another human being. She knew with absolute certainty that Mikael would never use what he knew about her to hurt her. It was not in his nature.
The only thing they never discussed was their relationship to each other. She did not dare, and Blomkvist never broached153 the subject.
At some point on the morning of the second day she came to a terrifying realisation. She had no idea how it had happened or how she was supposed to cope with it. She was in love for the first time in her life.
That he was almost twice her age did not bother her. Nor did the fact that at the moment he was one of the most newsworthy people in Sweden, and his picture was even on the cover of Newsweek—that was all just soap opera. But Blomkvist was no erotic fantasy or daydream154. It would have to come to an end. It could not possibly work out. What did he need her for? Maybe she was just a way to pass the time while he waited for someone whose life was not a fucking rat hole.
What she had realised was that love was that moment when your heart was about to burst.
When Blomkvist woke up late that morning, she had made coffee and been out to buy breakfast rolls. He joined her at the table and noticed at once that something in her attitude had changed—she was a bit more reserved. When he asked her if anything was wrong, she gave him a neutral, uncomprehending look.
On the first day between Christmas and New Year’s, Blomkvist took the train up to Hedestad. He was wearing his warmest clothes and his proper winter shoes when Frode met him at the station and quietly congratulated him on the media success. It was the first time since August that he had visited Hedestad, and it was almost exactly one year ago since he had visited it for the first time. They chatted politely, but there was also a great deal that had gone unsaid between them, and Blomkvist felt uncomfortable.
Everything had been prepared, and the business with Frode took only a few minutes. Frode offered to deposit the money in a convenient foreign bank account, but Blomkvist insisted that it should be paid like a normal, legitimate155 fee to his company.
“I can’t afford any other type of payment,” he said curtly156 when Frode persisted.
The purpose of his visit was not solely157 financial. Blomkvist had left clothes, books, and a number of his own things in the cottage when he and Salander had abandoned Hedeby in great haste.
Vanger was still frail158 after his illness, but he was at home. He was being looked after by a private nurse, who refused to allow him to take long walks, or walk up stairs, or discuss anything that might upset him. During the holidays he had also come down with a slight cold and was ordered to bed.
“Besides which, she’s expensive,” Vanger complained.
Blomkvist knew that the old man could afford any such expense—considering how many kronor he had written off his taxes all his life. Vanger gave him a sullen159 look until he started laughing.
“What the hell, you were worth every krona. I knew you would be.”
“To tell you the truth, I never thought I’d solve it.”
“I have no intention of thanking you,” Vanger said.
“I didn’t expect you would. I’m just here to tell you that I consider the job done.”
Vanger curled his lips. “You haven’t finished the job,” he said.
“I know that.”
“You haven’t written the Vanger family chronicle, which was agreed.”
“I know that. I’m not going to write it. In fact, I can’t write it. I can’t write about the Vanger family and leave out the most central event of the past decades. How could I write a chapter about Martin’s period as CEO and pretend that I don’t know what’s in his basement? I also can’t write the story without destroying Harriet’s life all over again.”
“I understand your dilemma160, and I’m grateful for the decision that you’ve made.”
“Congratulations. You’ve managed to corrupt161 me. I’m going to destroy all my notes and the tape recordings162 I’ve made of our conversations.”
“I don’t think that you’ve been corrupted,” Vanger said.
“That’s what it feels like. And I think that’s what it is.”
“You had to choose between your role as a journalist and your role as a human being. I could never have bought your silence. And I’m quite certain that you would have exposed us if Harriet had turned out in some way to have been implicated163, or if you thought I was a cretin.”
Blomkvist did not reply.
“We’ve told Cecilia the whole story. Frode and I will soon be gone, and Harriet is going to need support from someone in the family. Cecilia will play an active role on the board. She and Harriet will be in charge of the firm from now on.”
“How did she take it?”
“She was very shaken. She went abroad for a while. I was even afraid she wouldn’t come back.”
“But she did.”
“Martin was one of the few people in our family that Cecilia always got along with. It was very hard for her to find out the truth about him. She also knows now what you did for the family.”
Blomkvist shrugged164.
“So thank you, Mikael,” Vanger said.
“Besides, I couldn’t write the story because I’ve had it up to here with the Vanger family. But tell me, how does it feel to be CEO again?”
“It’s only temporary, but…I wish I were younger. I’m only working three hours a day. All the meetings are held in this room, and Dirch has stepped in again as my enforcer if anyone acts up.”
“The junior executives must be quaking in their boots. It took me a while to realise that Dirch wasn’t just an old sweetie of a financial adviser135 but also someone who solves problems for you.”
“Exactly. But all decisions are made with Harriet, and she’s the one who’s doing the legwork in the office.”
“How are things going for her?”
“She inherited both her brother’s and her mother’s shares. She controls about 33 percent of the corporation.”
“Is that enough?”
“I don’t know. Birger is trying to trip her up. Alexander has seen that he has a chance to make an impact and has allied165 himself with Birger. My brother Harald has cancer and won’t live much longer. He was the only remaining person with large shareholdings of 7 percent, which his children will inherit. Cecilia and Anita will be on Harriet’s side.”
“Then together you’ll control, what, 45 percent.”
“That kind of voting cartel has never existed within the family before. Plenty of shareholders166 with one and two percent will vote against us. Harriet is going to succeed me as CEO in February.”
“That won’t make her happy.”
“No, but it’s necessary. We have to take in some new partners and new blood. We also have the chance to collaborate167 with her company in Australia. There are possibilities.”
“Where’s Harriet today?”
“You’re out of luck. She’s in London. But she would very much like to see you.”
“I’ll see her at our board meeting in January if she’s going to take your place.”
“I know.”
“I think that she realises that I will never discuss what happened in the sixties with anyone except for Erika Berger, and I don’t see why Erika needs to know.”
“She does. You’re a person with morals, Mikael.”
“But also tell her that everything she does from now on could end up in the magazine. The Vanger Corporation won’t have a free pass from scrutiny.”
“I’ll warn her.”
Blomkvist left Vanger when he started to doze90 off. He packed his belongings168 into two suitcases. As he closed the door to the cottage for the last time, he paused and then went over to Cecilia’s house and knocked. She was not home. He took out his pocket calendar, tore out a page, and wrote: I wish you all the best. Try to forgive me. Mikael. He put the note in her letter box. An electric Christmas candle shone in the kitchen window of Martin Vanger’s empty house.
He took the last train back to Stockholm.
During the holidays Salander tuned169 out the rest of the world. She did not answer her telephone and she did not turn on her computer. She spent two days washing laundry, scrubbing, and cleaning up her apartment. Year-old pizza boxes and newspapers were bundled up and carried downstairs. She dragged out a total of six black rubbish bags and twenty paper bags full of newspapers. She felt as if she had decided to start a new life. She thought about buying a new apartment—when she found something suitable—but for now her old place would be more dazzlingly clean than she could ever remember.
Then she sat as if paralysed, thinking. She had never in her life felt such a longing48. She wanted Mikael Blomkvist to ring the doorbell and…what then? Lift her off the ground, hold her in his arms? Passionately170 take her into the bedroom and tear off her clothes? No, she really just wanted his company. She wanted to hear him say that he liked her for who she was. That she was someone special in his world and in his life. She wanted him to give her some gesture of love, not just of friendship and companionship. I’m flipping171 out, she thought.
She had no faith in herself. Blomkvist lived in a world populated by people with respectable jobs, people with orderly lives and lots of grown-up points. His friends did things, went on TV, and shaped the headlines. What do you need me for? Salander’s greatest fear, which was so huge and so black that it was of phobic proportions, was that people would laugh at her feelings. And all of a sudden all her carefully constructed self-confidence seemed to crumble172.
That’s when she made up her mind. It took her several hours to mobilise the necessary courage, but she had to see him and tell him how she felt.
Anything else would be unbearable173.
She needed some excuse to knock on his door. She had not given him any Christmas present, but she knew what she was going to buy. In a junk shop she had seen a number of metal advertising signs from the fifties, with embossed images. One of the signs showed Elvis Presley with a guitar on his hip7 and a cartoon balloon with the words HEARTBREAK HOTEL. She had no sense for interior design, but even she could tell that the sign would be perfect for the cabin in Sandhamn. It cost 780 kronor, and on principle she haggled174 and got the price knocked down to 700. She had it wrapped, put it under her arm, and headed over to his place on Bellmansgatan.
At Hornsgatan she happened to glance towards Kaffebar and saw Blomkvist coming out with Berger in tow. He said something, and she laughed, putting her arm around his waist and kissing his cheek. They turned down Br?nnkyrkagatan in the direction of Bellmansgatan. Their body language left no room for misinterpretations—it was obvious what they had in mind.
The pain was so immediate and so fierce that Lisbeth stopped in mid-stride, incapable175 of movement. Part of her wanted to rush after them. She wanted to take the metal sign and use the sharp edge to cleave176 Berger’s head in two. She did nothing as thoughts swirled177 through her mind. Analysis of consequences. Finally she calmed down.
“What a pathetic fool you are, Salander,” she said out loud.
She turned on her heel and went home to her newly spotless apartment. As she passed Zinkensdamm, it started to snow. She tossed Elvis into a dumpster.
The End
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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partnerships
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| n.伙伴关系( partnership的名词复数 )；合伙人身份；合作关系 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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audit
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| v.审计；查帐；核对；旁听 | |
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hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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audits
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| n.审计，查账( audit的名词复数 )v.审计，查账( audit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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laundering
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| n.洗涤（衣等），洗烫（衣等）；洗（钱）v.洗（衣服等），洗烫（衣服等）( launder的现在分词 )；洗（黑钱）（把非法收入改头换面，变为貌似合法的收入） | |
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anonymous
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sip
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noted
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cyberspace
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| n.虚拟信息空间，网络空间，计算机化世界 | |
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peripheral
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brink
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camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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tattoos
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| n.文身( tattoo的名词复数 )；归营鼓；军队夜间表演操；连续有节奏的敲击声v.刺青，文身( tattoo的第三人称单数 )；连续有节奏地敲击；作连续有节奏的敲击 | |
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unbearably
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naive
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tottered
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scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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30
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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31
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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32
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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33
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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34
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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35
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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36
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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37
lotion
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| n.洗剂 | |
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38
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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39
rouge
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|
| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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40
lipstick
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|
| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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41
briefcase
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|
| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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42
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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43
earrings
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|
| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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44
debited
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| v.记入（账户）的借方( debit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
suite
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|
| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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46
modem
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|
| n.调制解调器 | |
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47
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
longing
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|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
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49
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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50
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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51
consultations
|
|
| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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52
Oxford
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|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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53
retrieved
|
|
| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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54
pigeonholed
|
|
| v.把…搁在分类架上( pigeonhole的过去式和过去分词 )；把…留在记忆中；缓办；把…隔成小格 | |
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55
pigeonhole
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|
| n.鸽舍出入口；v.把...归类 | |
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56
portfolio
|
|
| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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57
spoke
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|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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58
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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59
broker
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|
| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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60
aspirin
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|
| n.阿司匹林 | |
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61
invoices
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|
| 发票( invoice的名词复数 )； （发货或服务）费用清单； 清单上货物的装运； 货物的托运 | |
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62
fictional
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|
| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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63
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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64
withdrawn
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|
| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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65
wasp
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|
| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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66
touching
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|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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67
champagne
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|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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68
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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69
irritation
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|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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70
spiked
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|
| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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71
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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72
fingerprints
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|
| n.指纹( fingerprint的名词复数 )v.指纹( fingerprint的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
locker
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|
| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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74
immediate
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|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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75
bins
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|
| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
hesitation
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|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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77
decided
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|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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78
berth
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|
| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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79
compartment
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|
| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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80
sipping
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|
| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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81
rummaged
|
|
| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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82
complimentary
|
|
| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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83
joint
|
|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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84
byline
|
|
| n.署名；v.署名 | |
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85
accusations
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|
| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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86
brutal
|
|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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87
scooped
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|
| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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88
unleashed
|
|
| v.把（感情、力量等）释放出来，发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
feverish
|
|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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90
doze
|
|
| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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91
reset
|
|
| v.重新安排，复位；n.重新放置；重放之物 | |
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92
frantic
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|
| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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93
vendetta
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|
| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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94
sloppy
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|
| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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95
journalism
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|
| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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96
freelancers
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|
| n.自由作家，自由记者( freelancer的名词复数 ) | |
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97
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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98
frenzy
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|
| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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99
prosecutors
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|
| 检举人( prosecutor的名词复数 )； 告发人； 起诉人； 公诉人 | |
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100
imbroglios
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|
| n.一团糟，错综复杂的局面( imbroglio的名词复数 ) | |
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101
stockbrokers
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| n.股票经纪人( stockbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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102
brokers
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|
| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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103
rumour
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|
| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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104
legendary
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|
| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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105
inevitably
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|
| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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106
gaol
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|
| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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107
favourable
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|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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108
secrecy
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|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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109
dedicated
|
|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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110
paperback
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|
| n.平装本，简装本 | |
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111
scooping
|
|
| n.捞球v.抢先报道( scoop的现在分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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112
sycophantic
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|
| adj.阿谀奉承的 | |
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113
perplexed
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|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
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114
improvise
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|
| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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115
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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116
gnomes
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|
| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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117
traitors
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|
| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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118
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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119
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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120
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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121
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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122
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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123
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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124
industrialist
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| n.工业家，实业家 | |
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125
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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126
indirectly
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|
| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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127
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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128
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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129
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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130
loathing
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|
| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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131
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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132
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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133
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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134
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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135
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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136
fugitive
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|
| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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137
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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138
thoroughly
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|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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139
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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140
penetrate
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|
| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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141
cryptic
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|
| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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142
halfway
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|
| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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143
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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144
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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145
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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146
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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147
withdrawals
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|
| n.收回，取回，撤回( withdrawal的名词复数 )；撤退，撤走；收回[取回，撤回，撤退，撤走]的实例；推出（组织），提走（存款），戒除毒瘾，对说过的话收回，孤僻 | |
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148
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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149
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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150
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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151
disappearance
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|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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152
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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153
broached
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|
| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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154
daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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155
legitimate
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|
| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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156
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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157
solely
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|
| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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158
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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159
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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160
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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161
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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162
recordings
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| n.记录( recording的名词复数 )；录音；录像；唱片 | |
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163
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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164
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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165
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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166
shareholders
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| n.股东( shareholder的名词复数 ) | |
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167
collaborate
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| vi.协作，合作；协调 | |
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168
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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169
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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170
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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171
flipping
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| 讨厌之极的 | |
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172
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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173
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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174
haggled
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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176
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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177
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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