it appeared from the village. He thought about how many times Harriet Vanger
must have played here as a child, but then he pushed all thoughts of her out of his
mind. After about a mile the woods ended at a fence where the Östergården
farmland began. They could see a white wooden structure and red farm buildings
arranged in a square. They turned to head back the same way.
As they passed the driveway to the estate house, Vanger knocked on the upstairs
window and gestured firmly for them to come up. Blomkvist and Berger looked at
each other.
“Would you like to meet a corporate legend?” Blomkvist said.
“Does he bite?”
“Not on Saturdays.”
Vanger received them at the door to his office.
“You must be Fröken Berger, I recognise you.” he said. “Mikael didn’t say a word
about your coming to Hedeby.”
One of Berger’s outstanding talents was her ability to instantly get on friendly
terms with the most unlikely individuals. Blomkvist had seen her turn on the charm
for five-year-old boys, who within ten minutes were fully prepared to abandon
their mothers. Men over eighty seemed not to be an exception. After two minutes
Berger and Henrik Vanger were ignoring Blomkvist as they chattered on. It was as if
they had known each other since childhood—well, since Erika’s childhood, at any
rate.
Berger started off quite boldly by scolding Vanger for luring her publisher away
into the sticks. The old man replied that as far as he could tell—from assorted press
reports—she had in fact fired him. And had she not done so, then now might be
high time to get rid of excess ballast in the editorial offices. And in that case, Vanger
said, a period of rustic life would do young Blomkvist some good.
For five minutes they discussed Blomkvist’s shortcomings in the most irritating
terms. Blomkvist leaned back and pretended to be insulted, but he frowned when
Berger made some cryptic remarks that might allude to his failings as a journalist