Read The Girl in the Spider's Web (Millennium series Book 4) for Free Online
Authors: David Lagercrantz
C.O.S.T., a programme for cooperation with the large I.T. companies – he had even changed the codenames. But he did not get far. He was just beginning to write, in his usual turgid prose:
when he was interrupted by one of his alerts.
He was not particularly worried. His warning systems were so sensitive that they reacted to the slightest divergence in the information flow. It was going to be an anomaly, a notification perhaps that someone was trying to exceed the limits of their authorization, or some minor interference.
As it turned out, he never had time to investigate. In the next moment something so uncanny happened that for several seconds he refused to believe it. He just sat there, staring at the screen. Yet he knew exactly what was going on. A R.A.T. had got into the NSANet intranet. Anywhere else he would have thought:
Those fuckers, I’ll crush them
. But in here, the most tightly closed and controlled place of all, which he and his team had gone over with a fine-toothed comb a million times just this last year to detect every minuscule little vulnerability, here, no, no, it was impossible – it could not be happening.
Without realizing it he had closed his eyes, as if hoping that it would all vanish so long as he wasn’t watching. But when he looked at the screen again, the sentence he had begun was being completed. His < I would just like to point out> was continuing on its own with the words
“Jesus, Jesus,” he muttered – which was at least a sign that he was beginning to recover some of his composure.
But then the text went on: at which point he gave a loud cry. The word “Root” brought down his whole world. For about a minute, as the computer raced through the most confidential parts of the system at lightning speed, he genuinely believed that he was going to have a heart attack. He was only vaguely aware that people were beginning to gather around his desk.
There was not much of a crowd down at the Bishops Arms. The weather was not encouraging people to venture out, not even to the local pub. Blomkvist was nevertheless met by shouts and laughter, and by a hoarse voice bawling:
“Kalle Blomkvist!”
It came from a man with a puffy red face, a halo of frizzy hair and a fussy moustache, whom Blomkvist had seen many times in the area. He thought his name was Arne, and Arne would turn up at the pub as regularly as clockwork at 2.00 every afternoon. Today he had clearly come earlier than that and settled down at a table to the left of the bar with three drinking companions.
“Mikael Blomkvist,” Blomkvist corrected him with a smile.
Arne and his friends laughed as if Blomkvist’s actual name was the biggest joke of all.
“Got any good scoops?” Arne said.
“I’m thinking about blowing wide open the whole murky scene at the Bishops Arms.”
“You reckon Sweden’s ready for a story like that?”
“No, probably not.”
In truth Blomkvist quite liked this crowd, not that he ever talked to them more than in throw-away lines and banter. But these men were a part of the local scene which made him feel at home in the area, and he was not in the least bit offended when one of them shot out, “I’ve heard that you’re washed up.”
Far from upsetting him, it brought the whole campaign against him down to the low, almost farcical level where it belonged.
“I’ve been washed up for the last fifteen years, hello to you brother bottle, all good things must pass,” he said, quoting the poet Fröding and looking around for
when he was interrupted by one of his alerts.
He was not particularly worried. His warning systems were so sensitive that they reacted to the slightest divergence in the information flow. It was going to be an anomaly, a notification perhaps that someone was trying to exceed the limits of their authorization, or some minor interference.
As it turned out, he never had time to investigate. In the next moment something so uncanny happened that for several seconds he refused to believe it. He just sat there, staring at the screen. Yet he knew exactly what was going on. A R.A.T. had got into the NSANet intranet. Anywhere else he would have thought:
Those fuckers, I’ll crush them
. But in here, the most tightly closed and controlled place of all, which he and his team had gone over with a fine-toothed comb a million times just this last year to detect every minuscule little vulnerability, here, no, no, it was impossible – it could not be happening.
Without realizing it he had closed his eyes, as if hoping that it would all vanish so long as he wasn’t watching. But when he looked at the screen again, the sentence he had begun was being completed. His < I would just like to point out> was continuing on its own with the words
“Jesus, Jesus,” he muttered – which was at least a sign that he was beginning to recover some of his composure.
But then the text went on:
There was not much of a crowd down at the Bishops Arms. The weather was not encouraging people to venture out, not even to the local pub. Blomkvist was nevertheless met by shouts and laughter, and by a hoarse voice bawling:
“Kalle Blomkvist!”
It came from a man with a puffy red face, a halo of frizzy hair and a fussy moustache, whom Blomkvist had seen many times in the area. He thought his name was Arne, and Arne would turn up at the pub as regularly as clockwork at 2.00 every afternoon. Today he had clearly come earlier than that and settled down at a table to the left of the bar with three drinking companions.
“Mikael Blomkvist,” Blomkvist corrected him with a smile.
Arne and his friends laughed as if Blomkvist’s actual name was the biggest joke of all.
“Got any good scoops?” Arne said.
“I’m thinking about blowing wide open the whole murky scene at the Bishops Arms.”
“You reckon Sweden’s ready for a story like that?”
“No, probably not.”
In truth Blomkvist quite liked this crowd, not that he ever talked to them more than in throw-away lines and banter. But these men were a part of the local scene which made him feel at home in the area, and he was not in the least bit offended when one of them shot out, “I’ve heard that you’re washed up.”
Far from upsetting him, it brought the whole campaign against him down to the low, almost farcical level where it belonged.
“I’ve been washed up for the last fifteen years, hello to you brother bottle, all good things must pass,” he said, quoting the poet Fröding and looking around for
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