Finally she pushed the glass aside and asked Harry to give her something that could not be used to tar a boat. He poured her another Tullamore Dew and she went back to her drinking. Over the past four days she had consumed almost a whole bottle. He had not kept track of the beers. Harry was surprised that a young woman with her slender build could hold so much, but he took the view that if she wanted alcohol she was going to get it, whether in his bar or somewhere else.
She drank slowly, did not talk to any of the other customers, and did not make any trouble. Her only activity apart from the consumption of alcohol seemed to be to play with a hand-held computer which she connected to a mobile now and then. He had several times tried to start a conversation but was met with a sullen silence. She seemed to avoid company. Sometimes, when there were too many people in the bar, she had moved outside to a table on the pavement, and at other times she had gone two doors down to an Italian restaurant and had dinner. Then she would come back to Harry’s and order another Tullamore Dew. She usually left the bar at around 10.00 and made her way unsteadily off, always to the north.
Today she had drunk more and at a faster rate than on the other days, and Harry had kept a watchful eye on her. When she had put away seven glasses of Tullamore Dew in a little over two hours, he decided not to give her any more. It was then that he heard the crash as she fell off the bar stool.
He put down the glass he was drying and went around the counter to pick her up. She seemed offended.
“I think you’ve had enough, Liz,” he said.
She looked at him, bleary-eyed.
“I believe you’re right,” she said in a surprisingly lucid voice.
She held on to the bar with one hand as she dug some notes out of her top pocket and then wobbled off towards the door. He took her gently by the shoulder.
“Hold on a minute. Why don’t you go to the toilet and throw up the last of that whisky and then sit at the bar for a while? I don’t want to let you go in this condition.”
She did not object when he led her to the toilet. She stuck her fingers down her throat. When she came back out to the bar he had poured her a large glass of club soda. She drank the whole glass and burped. He poured her another.
“You’re going to feel like death in the morning,” Harry said.
She nodded.
“It’s none of my business, but if I were you I’d sober up for a couple of days.”
She nodded. Then she went back to the toilet and threw up again.
She stayed at Harry’s Bar for another hour until she looked sober enough to be turned loose. She left the bar on unsteady legs, walked down to the airport and followed the shoreline around the marina. She walked until after 8.00, when the ground at last stopped swaying under her feet. Then she went back to the hotel. She took the lift to her room, brushed her teeth and washed her face, changed her clothes, and went back down to the hotel bar to order a cup of black coffee and a bottle of mineral water.
She sat there, silent and unnoticed next to a pillar, studying the people in the bar. She saw a couple in their thirties engaged in quiet conversation. The woman was wearing a light-coloured summer dress, and the man was holding her hand under the table. Two tables away sat a black family, the man with the beginnings of grey at his temples, the woman wearing a lovely, colourful dress in yellow, black and red. They had two young children with them. She studied a group of businessmen in white shirts and ties, their jackets hung over the backs of their chairs. They were drinking beer. She saw a group of elderly people, without a doubt American tourists. The men wore baseball caps, polo shirts and loose-fitting trousers. She watched a man in a light-coloured linen jacket, grey shirt and dark tie come in from the street and pick up his room key at the front desk before he headed over to the bar and ordered a beer. He sat down three metres away from her. She gave him an expectant look as he took out his mobile and began to speak in German.
“Hello, is that you? … Is everything alright? … It’s going fine, we’re having our next meeting tomorrow afternoon … No, I think it’ll work out … I’ll be staying here five or six days at least, and then I go to Madrid … No, I won’t be home before the end of next week … Me too. I love you … Sure … I’ll call you later in the week … Kiss kiss.”
He was a little over one metre eighty-five tall, about fifty years old maybe fifty-five, blond hair that was turning grey and was a bit on the long side, a weak chin, and too much weight around the middle. But still reasonably well preserved. He was reading the Financial Times. When he finished his beer and headed for the lift, Salander got up and followed him.
He pushed the button for the sixth floor. Salander stood next to him and leaned her head against the side of the lift.
“I’m drunk,” she said.
He smiled down at her. “Oh, really?”
“It’s been one of those weeks. Let me guess. You’re a businessman of some sort, from Hanover or somewhere in northern Germany. You’re married. You love your wife. And you have to stay here in Gibraltar for another few days. I gathered that much from your telephone call in the bar.”
The man looked at her, astonished.
“I’m from Sweden myself. I’m feeling an irresistible urge to have sex with somebody. I don’t care if you’re married and I don’t want your phone number.”
He looked startled.
“I’m in room 711, the floor above yours. I’m going to go up to my room, take a bath and get into bed. If you want to keep me company, knock on the door within half an hour. Otherwise I’ll be asleep.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” he said as the lift stopped.
“No. It’s just that I can’t be bothered to go out to some pick-up bar. Either you knock on my door or you don’t.”
Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock on the door of Salander’s room. She had a bath towel around her when she opened the door.
“Come in,” she said.
He stepped inside and looked around the room suspiciously.
“I’m alone here,” she said.
“How old are you, actually?”
She reached for her passport on top of a chest of drawers and handed it to him.
“You look younger.”
“I know,” she said, taking off the bath towel and throwing it on to a chair. She went over to the bed and pulled off the bedspread.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was staring at her tattoos.
“This isn’t a trap. I’m a woman, I’m single, and I’ll be here for a few days. I haven’t had sex for months.”
“Why did you choose me?”
“Because you were the only man in the bar who looked as if you were here alone.”
“I’m married—”
“And I don’t want to know who she is or even who you are. And I don’t want to discuss sociology. I want to fuck. Take off your clothes or go back down to your room.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Why not? You’re a grown man – you know what you’re supposed to do.”
He thought about it for all of thirty seconds. He looked as if he was going to leave. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. He bit his lip. Then he took off his trousers and shirt and stood hesitantly in his boxer shorts.
“Take it all off,” Salander said. “I don’t intend to fuck somebody in his underwear. And you have to use a condom. I know where I’ve been, but I don’t know where you’ve been.”
He took off his shorts and went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Salander closed her eyes when he bent down to kiss her. He tasted good. She let him tip her back on to the bed. He was heavy on top of her.
Jeremy Stuart MacMillan, solicitor, felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as soon as he tried to unlock the door to his office at Buchanan House on Queensway Quay above the marina. It was already unlocked. He opened it and smelled tobacco smoke and heard a chair creak. It was just before 7.00, and his first thought was that he had surprised a burglar.
“Good morning, Miss Salander,” he said at last.
“Ah, there you are,” she said. “There’s freshly brewed coffee and croissants in the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” he said, sighing in resignation.
He had, after all, bought the office with her money and at her request, but he had not expected her to turn up without warning. What is more, she had found and apparently read a gay porn magazine that he had kept hidden in a desk drawer.
So embarrassing.
Or maybe not.
When it came to Salander, he felt that she was the most judgemental person he had ever met. But she never once raised an eyebrow at people’s weaknesses. She knew that he was officially heterosexual, but his dark secret was that he was attracted to men; since his divorce fifteen years ago he had been making his most private fantasies a reality. It’s funny, but I feel safe with her.
Since she was in Gibraltar anyway, Salander had decided to visit MacMillan, the man who handled her finances. She had not been in touch with him since just after New Year, and she wanted to know if he had been busy ruining her ever since.
But there had not been any great hurry, and it was not for him that she had gone straight to Gibraltar after her release. She did it because she felt a burning desire to get away from everything, and in that respect Gibraltar was an excellent choice. She had spent almost a week getting drunk, and then a few days having sex with the German businessman, who eventually introduced himself as Dieter. She doubted it was his real name but had not bothered to check. He spent the days sitting in meetings and the evenings having dinner with her before they went back to his or her room.
He was not at all bad in bed, Salander thought, although he was a bit out of practice and sometimes needlessly rough.
Dieter seemed genuinely astonished that on sheer impulse she had picked up an overweight German businessman who was not even looking for it. He was indeed married, and he was not in the habit of being unfaithful or seeking female company on his business trips. But when the opportunity was presented on a platter in the form of a thin, tattooed young woman, he could not resist the temptation. Or so he said.
Salander did not care much what he said. She had not been looking for anything more than recreational sex, but she was gratified that he actually made an effort to satisfy her. It was not until the fourth night, their last together, that he had a panic attack and started going on about what his wife would say. Salander thought he should keep his mouth shut and not tell his wife a thing.
But she did not tell him what she thought.
He was a grown man and could have said no to her invitation. It was not her problem if he was now attacked by feelings of guilt, or if he confessed anything to his wife. She had lain with her back to him and listened for fifteen minutes, until finally she rolled her eyes in exasperation, turned over and straddled him.
“Do you think you could take a break from the worryguts stuff and get me off again?” she said.
Jeremy MacMillan was a very different story. He held zero erotic attraction for her. He was a crook. Amusingly enough, he looked a lot like Dieter. He was forty-eight, a bit overweight, with greying, dark-blond curly hair that he combed straight back from a high forehead. He wore thin gold-rimmed glasses.
He had once been a Cambridge-educated business lawyer and stockbroker in London. He had had a promising future and was a partner in a law firm that was engaged by big corporations and wealthy yuppies interested in real estate and tax planning. He had spent the go-go ’80s hanging out with nouveau riche celebrities. He had drunk hard and snorted coke with people that he really did not want to wake up with the next morning. He had never been charged with anything, but he did lose his wife and two kids along with his job when he mismanaged several transactions and tottered drunk into a mediation hearing.
Without thinking too much about it, he sobered up and fled London with his tail between his legs. Why he picked Gibraltar he did not know, but in 1991 he went into partnership with a local solicitor and opened a modest back-street law office which officially dealt with much less glamorous matters: estate planning, wills and such like. Unofficially, MacMillan & Marks also helped to set up P.O. Box companies and acted as gatekeepers for a number of shady figures in Europe. The firm was barely making ends meet when Salander selected Jeremy MacMillan to administer the $2.4 billion she had stolen from the collapsing empire of the Swedish financier Hans-Erik Wennerström.
MacMillan was a crook, no doubt about it, but she regarded him as her crook, and he had surprised himself by being impeccably honest in his dealings with her. She had first hired him for a simple task. For a modest fee he had set up a string of P.O. Box companies for her to use; she put a million dollars into each of them. She had contacted him by telephone and had been nothing more than a voice from afar. He never tried to discover where the money came from. He had done what she asked and took 5 per cent commission. A little while later she had transferred a large sum of money that he was to use to set up a corporation, Wasp Enterprises, which then acquired a substantial apartment in Stockholm. His dealings with Salander were becoming quite lucrative, even if it was still only quite modest pickings.
Two months later she had paid a visit to Gibraltar. She had called him and suggested dinner in her room at the Rock Hotel, which was, if not the biggest hotel in Gibraltar, then certainly the most famous. He was not sure what he had expected, but he could not believe that his client was this doll-like girl who looked as if she were in her early teens. He thought he was the butt of some outlandish practical joke.
He soon changed his mind. The strange young woman talked with him impersonally, without ever smiling or showing any warmth. Or coolness, for that matter. He had sat paralysed as, over the course of a few minutes, she obliterated the professional facade of sophisticated respectability that he was always so careful to maintain.
“What is it that you want?” he had asked.
“I’ve stolen a sum of money,” she replied with great seriousness. “I need a crook who can administer it.”
He had stared at her, wondering whether she was deranged, but politely he played along. She might be a possible mark for a con game that could bring in a small income. Then he had sat as if struck by lightning when she explained who she had stolen the money from, how she did it, and what the amount was. The Wennerström affair was the hottest topic of conversation in the world of international finance.
“I see.”
The possibilities flew through his head.
“You’re a skilled business lawyer and stockbroker. If you were an idiot you would never have got the jobs you did in the ’80s. However, you behaved like an idiot and managed to get yourself fired.”
He winced.
“In the future I will be your only client.”
She had looked at him with the most ingenuous expression he had ever seen.
“I have two conditions. The first is that you never ever commit a crime or get mixed up in anything that could create problems for us and focus the authorities’ attention on my companies and accounts. The second is that you never lie to me. Never ever. Not a single time. And not for any reason. If you lie to me, our business relationship will terminate instantly, and if you make me cross enough I will ruin you.”
She poured him a glass of wine.
“There’s no reason to lie to me. I already know everything worth knowing about your life. I know how much you make in a good month and a bad month. I know how much you spend. I know that you never really have e
nough money. I know that you owe £120,000 in both long-term and short-term debts, and that you always have to take risks and skim some money to make the loan payments. You wear expensive clothes and try to keep up appearances, but in reality you’ve gone to the dogs and haven’t bought a new sports jacket in several months. But you did take an old jacket in to have the lining mended two weeks ago. You used to collect rare books but have been gradually selling them off. Last month you sold an early edition of Oliver Twist for £760.”
She stopped talking and fixed him with her gaze. He swallowed hard.
“Last week you actually made a killing. A quite clever fraud perpetrated against that widow you represent. You ripped her off £6,000, which she’ll probably never miss.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“I know that you were married, that you have two children in England who don’t want to see you, and that you’ve taken the big leap since your divorce and now have primarily homosexual relationships. You’re probably ashamed of that and avoid the gay clubs, and you avoid being seen in town with any of your male friends. You regularly cross the border into Spain to meet men.”
MacMillan was shaken to the core. And he was suddenly terrified. He had no idea how she had come by all this information, but she knew enough to destroy him.
“And I’m only going to say this one time. I don’t give a shit who you have sex with. It’s none of my business. I want to know who you are, but I will never use what I know. I won’t threaten you or blackmail you.”
MacMillan was no fool. He was perfectly aware, of course, that her knowledge of all that information about him constituted a threat. She was in control. For a moment he had considered picking her up and throwing her over the edge of the terrace, but he restrained himself. He had never in his life been so scared.
Millennium 03 - The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest Page 63