NATIONAL BESTSELLER • Lisbeth Salander must face the most important battle of her life, and will finally put her past to rest in this Milliennium series thriller that will “leave Salander’s legion of followers clamoring for more” ( The Wall Street Journal ). Mikael Blomkvist is trying to reach Lisbeth Salander—the fierce, unstoppable girl with the dragon tattoo. He needs her help unraveling the identity of a man who died with Blomkvist's phone number in his pocket—a man who does not exist in any official records and whose garbled last words hinted at knowledge that would be dangerous to important people. But Lisbeth has disappeared. She's sold her apartment in Stockholm. She's gone dark. She's told no one where she is. And no one is aware that at long last she's got her primal enemy, her twin sister, Camilla, squarely in her sights. “A murder mystery inside an espionage conspiracy wrapped in an action thriller—a unique concoction that should leave Salander’s legion of followers clamoring for more.”  –The Wall Street Journal   "A quest for revenge and atonement that plumbs the depths of Russian troll factories and scales the heights of Mount Everest." – TIME DAVID LAGERCRANTZ is an acclaimed Swedish author and journalist. He is the author of three books in the Millennium series: The Girl who in the Spider’s Web , The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye , and The Girl Who Lived Twice .  He is the coauthor of numerous biographies (including the internationally best-selling memoir  I Am Zlatan Ibrahimovic ) and the acclaimed novel  Fall of Man in Wilmslow,  on the death and life of Alan Turing. Salander was in a hotel room on Manezhnaya Square in Moscow, her eyes on her laptop, and she watched as Mikael Blomkvist emerged from the building entrance on Fiskargatan. He did not look his usual confident self, instead he seemed lost. She felt a pang of something she did not fully recognise, and did not feel minded to probe. She glanced up from her screen at the glass dome in the square outside, glittering with light of all colours.             The city which until recently had held no interest for her now beckoned, and it crossed her mind that she should just drop everything and go out on a binge. But that was idiotic, she had to remain disciplined. She had more or less been living at her laptop recently, sometimes she hardly slept. And yet she looked much neater than she had for a long time. She had had her hair cut short. Her piercings were gone and she was wearing a white shirt and her black suit, just as she had at the funeral, not actually to honour Holger, but because it had become habit and she wanted to blend in better.             She had resolved to strike first, not wait like some cornered prey, and that was why she now found herself in Moscow, and why she had arranged for cameras to be installed at Fiskargatan in Stockholm. But she was paying a higher price than expected. Not only because it brought back her past and kept her awake at night. It was also the fact that her enemies were hiding behind smokescreens and impossible encryptions, and she had to spend hours covering her tracks. She was living like a prisoner on the run. Nothing of what she was searching for came easily to her, and it was only now, after a month’s work, that she was nearing her objective. But it was hard to know for certain, and sometimes she wondered if the enemy was, in spite of everything, always one step ahead.             Today, when she had been out on reconnaissance, she had felt she was being watched, and sometimes at night she would listen for footsteps in the hotel corridor, especially those of one man – she was sure it was a man – suffering from dysmetria, an irregularity in his gait, who often slowed down outside her door, and who seemed to be listening too.             She pressed rewind. Again Blomkvist came out of the apartment on Fiskargatan with a hang-dog look, and she reflected on that as she drained her glass of whisky. Dark clouds drifted over the State Duma towards Red Square and the Kremlin. A storm was on its way, and that was perhaps just as well. She got up and considered taking a shower or a bath, then settled for changing her shirt, choosing a black one. That seemed appropriate. From a hidden compartment in her suitcase she retrieved her Beretta Cheetah, the pistol she had bought on her second day in Moscow, and slotted it into the holster under her jacket. She sat on the bed and contemplated the room.             She did not like it, nor the hotel for that matter. It was too luxurious, too ostentatious, and it was not just that there were men like her father socialising down in the bar, pompous shits with a sense of unconditional entitlement to their mistresses and subordinates. There were also eyes on her, and word could be passed to the intelligence services or to gangsters. Often she found herself sitting as she was now, fists clenched, ready for a fight.             She went into the bathr