prospect of getting even with Wennerström, and Blomkvist wondered again what
the origin was of the animosity between those two.
Martin refilled their glasses. Vanger made a point of leaning towards Blomkvist, and
in a low voice told him that this new arrangement had no effect whatsoever on the
agreement that existed between them. Blomkvist could resume his duties as
publisher full-time at the end of the year.
It was also decided that the reorganisation, in order to have the greatest impact in
the media, should be presented on the same day that Blomkvist began his prison
sentence in mid-March. Combining a strongly negative event with a reorganisation
was, in PR terms, such a clumsy error that it could not but astonish Blomkvist’s
detractors and garner optimum attention for Henrik Vanger’s new role. But
everyone also saw the logic in it—it was a way of indicating that the yellow plague
flag fluttering over Millennium’s editorial offices was about to be hauled down; the
magazine had backers who were willing to be ruthless. The Vanger Corporation
might be in a crisis, but it was still a prominent industrial firm which could go on
the offence if the need arose.
The whole conversation was a discussion between Berger, on one side, and Henrik
and Martin Vanger on the other. No-one asked Blomkvist what he thought.
Late that night Blomkvist lay with his head resting on Erika’s breasts, looking into
her eyes.
“How long have you and Henrik Vanger been discussing this arrangement?”
“About a week,” she said, smiling.
“Is Christer in agreement?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why in the world should I discuss it with you? You resigned as publisher, you left
the editorial staff and the board, and you went to live in the woods.”
“So I deserve to be treated like an idiot.”