CHAPTER 3
Friday, December 17–Saturday, December 18
Salander woke at 7:00 a.m., showered, and went down to see Freddy McBain at the
front desk to ask if there was a dune buggy she could rent for the day. Ten minutes
later she had paid the deposit, adjusted the seat and rearview mirror, test-started it,
and checked that there was fuel in the tank. She went into the bar and ordered a
caffè latte and a cheese sandwich for breakfast, and a bottle of mineral water to
take with her. She spent breakfast scribbling figures on a paper napkin and
pondering Pierre de Fermat’s (x3 + y3 = z3).
Just after 8:00 Dr. Forbes came into the bar. He was freshly shaven and dressed in a
dark suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He ordered eggs, toast, orange juice, and black
coffee. At 8:30 he got up and walked out to a waiting taxi.
Salander followed at a suitable distance. Forbes left the taxi below Seascape at the
start of the Carenage and strolled along the water’s edge. She drove past him,
parked near the centre of the harbour promenade, and waited patiently until he
passed her before she followed him again.
By 1:00 p.m. Salander was drenched with sweat and her feet were swollen. For four
hours she had walked up one street in St. George’s and down another. Her pace had
been leisurely, but she never stopped. The steep hills began to strain her muscles.
She was astonished at Forbes’ energy as she drank the last drops of her mineral
water. She had begun to think of giving up the project when suddenly he turned
towards the Turtleback. She gave him ten minutes before she too entered the
restaurant and sat outside on the veranda. They both sat in the same places as the
day before, and just as he had done then, he drank a Coca-Cola as he stared at the
harbour.
Forbes was one of very few people on Grenada in a suit and tie. He seemed
untroubled by the heat.
At 3:00 he disturbed Salander’s train of thought by paying and leaving the
restaurant. He walked unhurriedly along the Carenage and hopped on one of the
minibuses heading out to Grand Anse.
Salander parked outside the Keys Hotel five minutes before the bus dropped him
off. She went to her room, ran a bath with cold water, and stretched out in it,
frowning deeply.
The day’s exertions—her feet were still aching—had given her a clear message. Every
morning Forbes left the hotel dressed for battle with his briefcase, yet he spent the
day doing absolutely nothing except killing time. Whatever he was doing on
Grenada, he was not planning the building of a new school, and yet he wanted to
give the impression that he was on the island for business.
Then why all this theatre?
The only person he might want to hide something from in this connection was his
wife, who presumably thought that he was extremely busy during the day. But
why? Had the deal fallen through and he was too proud to admit it? Did he have
another objective on this visit to the island? Was he waiting for something, or
someone?
Salander had four email messages. The first was from Plague and had been sent
only an hour after she had written to him. The message was encrypted and posed
the question: “Are you really alive?” Plague had never been much for writing
rambling, sentimental emails. Nor, for that matter, had Salander.
Two further emails had been sent around 2:00 a.m. One was from Plague, also
encrypted, telling her that an Internet acquaintance who went by the name of
Bilbo, who apparently lived in Texas, had snapped up her enquiry. Plague attached
Bilbo’s address and PGP key. Minutes later Bilbo emailed her from a hotmail
address. The message said only that Bilbo would send the data on Dr. Forbes and his
wife within twenty-four hours.
The fourth email was also from Bilbo, sent late that afternoon. It contained an
encrypted bank account number and an FTP address. Salander opened the URL and
found a Zip file of 390 KB, which she extracted and saved. It was a folder containing
four low-resolution photographs and five Word documents.
Two of the pictures were of Dr. Forbes alone; one of them had been taken at the
première of a play and showed Forbes with his wife. The fourth photograph was of
Forbes in a church pulpit.
The first document contained eleven pages of text, which was Bilbo’s report. The
second document contained eighty-four pages of text downloaded from the
Internet. The next two documents were OCR-scanned newspaper clippings from the
Austin American-Statesman, and the final document was an overview of Dr. Forbes’
congregation, the Presbyterian Church of Austin South.
Apart from the fact that Salander knew the Book of Leviticus by heart—the year
before, she had had occasion to study biblical references to punishment—she had
little more than a sketchy grasp of religious history. She had only a vague sense of
the differences between Jewish, Presbyterian, and Catholic churches, apart from the
fact that the Jewish ones were called synagogues. For a moment she was afraid that
she would have to immerse herself in the theological details. But on reflection she
didn’t give a flying fuck what sort of congregation Dr. Forbes belonged to.
Dr. Richard Forbes, aka Reverend Richard Forbes, was forty-two. The home page of
the Church of Austin South showed that the church had seven employees. Reverend
Duncan Clegg was at the top of the list. The photograph showed a powerful man
with bushy grey hair and a well-groomed grey beard.
Forbes was the third name on the list, responsible for educational matters. Next to
his name it also said “Holy Water Foundation” in parentheses.
Salander read the introduction to the church’s mission statement.
Through prayer and thanksgiving we shall serve the people of Austin South by
offering the stability, theology, and hopeful ideology as defended by the
Presbyterian Church of America. As Christ’s servants we offer a refuge for people in
need and a promise of atonement through prayer and the sacrament of baptism.
Let us be joyful in God’s love. Our duty is to remove the barriers between people
and to erase the obstacles to an understanding of God’s message of love.
Below the introduction was the church’s bank account number and an appeal to
convert one’s love of God into action.
From Bilbo’s succinct biography Salander learned that Forbes was born in Pine Bluff,
Nevada, and had worked as a farmer, businessman, school administrator, local
correspondent for a newspaper in New Mexico, and manager of a Christian rock
band before joining the Church of Austin South at the age of thirty-one. He was a
certified public accountant and had also studied archaeology. Bilbo had not been
able to find the source of his doctorate.
Forbes had met Geraldine Knight in the congregation, the only daughter of rancher
William F. Knight, also a member of Austin South. The couple had married in 1997,
and subsequently Forbes’ star in the church had risen. He became the head of the
Santa Maria Foundation, the aim of which was to “invest God’s funds in educational
projects for the needy.”
Forbes had been arrested twice. At the age of twenty-five, in 1987, he had been
charged with aggravated bodily harm following a car accident. He was acquitted by
the court. As far as Salander could tell from the press clippings, he was indeed
innocent. In 1995 he was charged with embezzling money from the Christian rock
band he managed. He was acquitted that time too.
In Austin he had become a prominent public figure and a member of the city’s
board of education. He was a member of the Democratic Party, participated
diligently in charity work, and collected money to fund schooling for children in
less fortunate families. The Church of Austin South concentrated its work among
Spanish-speaking families.
In 2001, allegations had been made against Forbes for financial irregularities in his
work with the Santa Maria Foundation. According to one newspaper article, Forbes
was suspected of having placed a larger portion of the assets into investment funds
than was stipulated in the statutes. The accusations were denied by the church, and
the Reverend Clegg stood firmly on Forbes’ side in the controversy. No charges
were filed, and an audit turned up nothing untoward.
Salander studied Bilbo’s summary of Forbes’ own finances. He had an annual
income of $60,000, which was considered a decent salary, but he himself had no
assets. Geraldine Forbes was responsible for their financial stability. Her father had
died in 2002. The daughter was sole heir to a fortune worth at least $40 million.
The couple had no children.
Forbes was therefore dependent on his wife. Salander thought that this was not a
good position to be in if you were in the habit of abusing your wife.
She logged on to the Internet and sent an encrypted message to Bilbo thanking him
for his report, and then she transferred $500 to his account.
She went out on the balcony and leaned against the railing. The sun was about to
set. A breeze was rustling the crowns of the palm trees along the seawall. Grenada
was feeling the outer bands of Matilda. She followed Ella Carmichael’s advice and
packed her computer, Dimensions in Mathematics, some personal effects, and a
change of clothes into her shoulder bag and set it on the floor next to the bed.
Then she went down to the bar and ordered fish for dinner and a bottle of Carib.
The only event of interest was when Dr. Forbes, who had changed into a light-coloured tennis shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes, approached the bar to ask Ella about
Matilda’s movements. He did not seem particularly anxious. He wore a cross on a
gold chain around his neck and looked vigorous, even attractive.
Salander was worn out after the day’s fruitless wandering in St. George’s. She took
a short walk after dinner, but the wind was blowing hard and the temperature had
dropped sharply. She went back to her room and crept into bed by 9:00. The wind
was rattling the windows. She had intended to read for a while but fell fast asleep
almost immediately.
She was awakened all of a sudden by a loud banging. She looked at her watch: 11:15.
She lurched out of bed and opened the door to the balcony. Gusts of wind made
her take a step back. She braced herself on the doorjamb, took a cautious step onto
the balcony, and looked around.
Some hanging lamps around the pool were swinging back and forth, creating a
dramatic shadow play in the garden. She noticed that several hotel guests were
standing by the opening in the wall, looking out at the beach. Others were grouped
near the bar. To the north she could see the lights of St. George’s. The sky was
overcast, but it was not raining. She could not see the ocean in the dark, but the
roar of the waves was much louder than usual. The temperature had dropped even
further. For the first time since she had arrived in the Caribbean she shivered with
cold.
As she stood on the balcony there was a loud knock on her door. She wrapped a
sheet around her and opened the door. Freddy McBain looked resolute.
“Pardon me for bothering you, but there seems to be a storm.”
“Matilda.”
“Matilda,” McBain said. “She struck outside Tobago earlier this evening and we’ve
received reports of substantial destruction.”
Salander went through her knowledge of geography and meteorology. Trinidad and
Tobago lay about 125 miles southeast of Grenada. A tropical storm could spread to a
radius of 60 miles, and its eye could move at a speed of 20 to 25 miles an hour.
Which meant that Matilda might be knocking at Grenada’s door any time now. It
all depended on which direction it was heading.
“There’s no immediate danger,” McBain said, “but we’re not taking any chances. I
want you to pack your valuables in a bag and come down to the lobby. The hotel
will provide coffee and sandwiches.”
Salander washed her face to wake up, pulled on some jeans, shoes, and a flannel
shirt, and picked up her shoulder bag. Before she left the room she went and
opened the bathroom door and turned on the light. The green lizard wasn’t there;
it must have crept into some hole. Smart girl.
In the bar she settled in her usual spot and watched Ella Carmichael directing her
staff and filling thermoses with hot drinks. After a while she came over to Lisbeth’s
corner.
“Hi. You look like you just woke up.”
“I did sleep a little. What happens now?”
“We wait. Out at sea there’s a heavy storm, and we got a hurricane warning from
Trinidad. If it gets worse and Matilda comes this way, we’ll go into the cellar. Can
you lend us a hand?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We have a hundred and sixty blankets in the lobby to be carried down. And we
have a lot of things that need to be stowed.”
Salander helped carry the blankets downstairs and brought in flower vases, tables,
chaises longues, and other unfixed items from around the pool. When Ella was
satisfied and told her that was enough, Salander went over to the opening in the
wall that faced the beach and took a few steps out into the darkness. The sea was
booming menacingly and the wind tore at her so strongly that she had to brace
herself to stay upright. The palm trees along the wall were swaying.
She went back inside, ordered a caffè latte, and sat with it at the bar. It was past
midnight. The atmosphere among the guests and staff was anxious. People were
having subdued conversations, looking towards the horizon from time to time, and
waiting. There were thirty-two guests and a staff of ten at the Keys Hotel. Salander
noticed Geraldine Forbes at a table by the front desk. She looked tense and was
nursing a drink. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.
Salander drank her coffee and had once more started in on Fermat’s theorem when
McBain came out of the office and stood in the middle of the lobby.
“May I have your attention, please? I have been informed that a hurricane-force
storm has just hit Petite Martinique. I have to ask everyone to go down to the
cellar at once.”
McBain stonewalled the many questions and directed his guests to the cellar stairs
behind the front desk. Petite Martinique, a small island belonging to Grenada, was
only a few sea miles north of the main island. Salander glanced at Ella Carmichael
and pricked up her ears when the bartender went over to McBain.
“How bad is it?”
“No way of knowing. The telephone lines are down,” McBain said in a low voice.
Salander went down to the cellar and put her bag on a blanket in the corner. She
thought for a moment and then headed back up against the flow to the lobby. She
found Ella and asked her if there was anything else she could do to help. Ella shook
her head, looking worried.
“Matilda is a bitch. We’ll just have to see what happens.”
Salander watched a group of five adults and about ten children hurrying in through
the hotel entrance. McBain took charge of them too and directed them to the cellar
stairs.
Salander was suddenly struck by a worrisome thought.
“I suppose everybody will be going down into their cellars about now,” she said
quietly.
Ella watched the family going down the stairs.
“Unfortunately ours is one of the few cellars on Grand Anse. More people will
probably be coming to seek shelter here.”
Salander gave her a sharp look.
“What will the rest do?”
“The ones who don’t have cellars?” She gave a bitter laugh. “They’ll huddle in their
houses or look for shelter in a shed. They have to trust in God.”
Salander turned and ran through the lobby and out of the entrance.
George Bland.
She heard Ella call after her, but she did not stop to explain.
He lives in a fucking shack that will collapse with the first gust of wind.
As she reached the road to St. George’s she staggered in the wind that tore at her
body, and then she began to jog. She was heading stubbornly into a heavy
headwind that made her reel. It took almost ten minutes to cover the four hundred
yards to the shack. She did not see a living soul the whole way there.
The rain came out of nowhere like an ice-cold shower from a fire hose. At the same
instant, she turned in towards the shack and saw the light from his kerosene lamp
swinging in the window. She was drenched in a second, and she could hardly see
two yards in front of her. She hammered on his door. George Bland opened it with
eyes wide.
“What are you doing here?” He shouted to be heard above the wind.
“Come on. You have to come to the hotel. They have a cellar.”
The boy looked shocked. The wind slammed the door shut and it was several
seconds before he could force it open again. Salander grabbed hold of his T-shirt
and dragged him out. She wiped the water from her face, then gripped his hand
and began to run. He ran with her.
They took the beach path, which was about a hundred yards shorter than the main
road, which looped inland. When they had gone halfway, Salander realized that this
might have been a mistake. On the beach they had no protection at all. Wind and
rain tore at them so hard that they had to stop several times. Sand and branches
were flying through the air. There was a terrible roar. After what seemed an
eternity Salander finally spied the hotel walls and picked up the pace. Just as they
made it to the entrance and the promise of safety, she looked over her shoulder at
the beach. She stopped short.
Through a rain squall she spotted two figures about fifty yards down the beach.
Bland pulled her arm to drag her through the door. She let go of his hand and
braced herself against the wall as she tried to focus on the water’s edge. For a
second or two she lost sight of the figures in the rain, but then the entire sky was
lit up by a flash of lightning.
She knew already that it was Richard and Geraldine Forbes. They were at about the
same place where she had seen Forbes wandering back and forth the night before.
When the next flash came, Forbes appeared to be dragging his wife, who was
struggling with him.
All the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The financial dependence. The allegations
of chicanery in Austin. His restless wandering and motionless hours at the
Turtleback.
He’s planning to murder her. Forty million in the pot. The storm is his camouflage.
This is his chance.
Salander turned and shoved Bland through the door. She looked around and found
the rickety wooden chair the night watchman usually sat on, which had not been
cleared away before the storm. She smashed it as hard as she could against the wall
and armed herself with one of its legs. Bland screamed after her in horror as she
ran towards the beach.
She was almost bowled over by the furious gusts, but she clenched her teeth and
worked her way forward, step by step, into the storm. She had almost reached the
couple when one more flash of lightning lit up the beach and she saw Geraldine
Forbes sink to her knees by the water’s edge. Forbes stood over her, his arm raised
to strike with what looked like an iron pipe in his hand. She saw his arm move in
an arc towards his wife’s head. Geraldine stopped struggling.
Forbes never saw Salander coming.
She cracked the chair leg over the back of his head and he fell forward on his face.
Salander bent and took hold of Geraldine Forbes. As the rain whipped across them,
she turned the body over. Her hands were suddenly bloody. Geraldine Forbes had a
wound on her scalp. She was as heavy as lead, and Salander looked around
desperately, wondering how she was going to pull her up to the hotel wall. Then
Bland appeared at her side. He shouted something that Salander could not make
out in the storm.
She glanced at Forbes. He had his back to her, but he was up on all fours. She took
Geraldine’s left arm and put it around her neck and motioned to Bland to take the
other arm. They began laboriously dragging her up the beach.
Halfway to the hotel wall Salander felt completely drained, as if all strength had
left her body. Her heart skipped a beat when she felt a hand grab her shoulder. She
let go of Geraldine and spun around to kick Forbes in the crotch. He stumbled to
his knees. Then she kicked him in the face. She saw Bland’s horrified expression.
Salander gave him half a second of attention before she again took hold of
Geraldine Forbes and resumed dragging her.
After a few seconds she turned her head. Forbes was tottering ten paces behind
them, but he was swaying like a drunk in the gusting winds.
Another bolt of lightning cleaved the sky and Salander opened her eyes wide.
She felt a paralyzing terror.
Behind Forbes, a hundred yards out to sea, she saw the finger of God.
A frozen image in the sudden flash, a coal black pillar that towered up and
vanished from sight into space.
Matilda.
It’s not possible.
A hurricane—yes.
A tornado—impossible.
Grenada is not in a tornado zone.
A freak storm in a region where tornadoes can’t happen.
Tornadoes cannot form over water.
This is scientifically wrong.
This is something unique.
It has come to take me.
Bland had seen the tornado too. They yelled at each other to hurry, not able to hear
what the other was saying.
Twenty yards more to the wall. Ten. Salander tripped and fell to her knees. Five. At
the gate she took one last look over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of Forbes
just as he was tugged into the sea as if by an invisible hand and disappeared. She
and Bland heaved their burden through the gate. As they staggered across the back
courtyard, over the storm Salander heard the crash of windowpanes shattering and
the screeching whine of twisting sheet metal. A plank flew through the air right
past her nose. The next second she felt pain as something solid struck her in the
back. The violence of the wind diminished when they reached the lobby.
Salander stopped Bland and grabbed his collar. She pulled his head to her mouth
and yelled in his ear.
“We found her on the beach. We didn’t see the husband. Understood?”
He nodded.
They carried Geraldine Forbes down the cellar stairs and Salander kicked at the
door. McBain opened it and stared at them. Then he pulled them in and shut the
door again.
The noise from the storm dropped in a second from an intolerable roar to a
creaking and rumbling in the background. Salander took a deep breath.
Ella poured hot coffee into a mug. Salander was so shattered she could scarcely
raise her arm to take it. She sat passively on the floor, leaning against the wall.
Someone had wrapped blankets around both her and the boy. She was soaked
through and bleeding badly from a gash below her kneecap. There was a rip about
four inches long in her jeans and she had no memory of it happening. She watched
numbly as McBain and two hotel guests worked on Geraldine Forbes, wrapping
bandages around her head. She caught words here and there and understood that
someone in the group was a doctor. She noticed that the cellar was packed and
that the hotel guests had been joined by people from outside who had come
looking for shelter.
After a while McBain came over to Salander and squatted down.
“She’ll live.”
Salander said nothing.
“What happened?”
“We found her beyond the wall on the beach.”
“I was missing three people when I counted the guests down here in the cellar. You
and the Forbes couple. Ella said that you ran off like a crazy person just as the
storm got here.”
“I went to get my friend George.” Salander nodded at Bland. “He lives down the
road in a shack that can’t possibly still be standing.”
“That was very brave but awfully stupid,” McBain said, glancing at Bland. “Did
either of you two see the husband?”
“No,” Salander said with a neutral expression. Bland glanced at her and shook his
head.
Ella tilted her head and gave Salander a sharp look. Salander looked back at her
with expressionless eyes.
Geraldine Forbes came to at around 3:00 a.m. By that time Salander had fallen
asleep with her head on Bland’s shoulder.
In some miraculous way, Grenada survived the night. McBain allowed the guests
out of the cellar, and when dawn broke the storm had died away, replaced by the
most torrential rain Salander had ever seen.
The Keys Hotel would be needing a major overhaul. The devastation at the hotel,
and all along the coast, was extensive. Ella’s bar beside the pool was gone
altogether, and one veranda had been demolished. Windows had peeled off along
the facade, and the roof of a projecting section of the hotel had bent in two. The
lobby was a chaos of debris.
Salander took Bland with her and staggered up to her room. She hung a blanket
over the empty window frame to keep out the rain. Bland met her gaze.
“There’ll be less to explain if we didn’t see her husband,” Salander said before he
could ask any questions.
He nodded. She pulled off her clothes, dropped them on the floor, and patted the
edge of the bed next to her. He nodded again and undressed and crawled in beside
her. They were asleep almost at once.
When she awoke at midday, the sun was shining through cracks in the clouds.
Every muscle in her body ached, and her knee was so swollen that she could hardly
bend it. She slipped out of bed and got into the shower. The green lizard was back
on the wall. She put on shorts and a top and stumbled out of the room without
waking Bland.
Ella was still on her feet. She looked dog-tired, but she had gotten the bar in the
lobby up and running. Salander ordered coffee and a sandwich. Through the blown-out windows by the entrance she saw a police car. Just as her coffee arrived,
McBain came out of his office by the front desk, followed by a uniformed
policeman. McBain caught sight of her and said something to the policeman before
they came over to Salander’s table.
“This is Constable Ferguson. He’d like to ask you some questions.”
Salander greeted him politely. Constable Ferguson had obviously had a long night,
too. He took out a notebook and pen and wrote down Salander’s name.
“Ms. Salander, I understand that you and a friend discovered Mrs. Richard Forbes
during the hurricane last night.”
Salander nodded.
“Where did you find her?”
“On the beach just below the gate,” Salander said. “We almost tripped over her.”
Ferguson wrote that down.
“Did she say anything?”
Salander shook her head.
“She was unconscious?”
Salander nodded sensibly.
“She had a nasty wound on her head.”
Salander nodded again.
“You don’t know how she was injured?”
Salander shook her head. Ferguson muttered in irritation at her lack of response.
“There was a lot of stuff flying through the air,” she said helpfully. “I was almost hit
in the head by a plank.”
“You injured your leg?” Ferguson pointed at her bandage. “What happened?”
“I didn’t notice it until I got down to the cellar.”
“You were with a young man.”
“George Bland.”
“Where does he live?”
“In a shack behind the Coconut, on the road to the airport. If the shack is still
standing, that is.”
Salander did not add that Bland was at that moment asleep in her bed three floors
above them.
“Did either of you see her husband, Richard Forbes?”
Salander shook her head.
Constable Ferguson could not, it seemed, think of any other questions to ask, and
he closed his notebook.
“Thank you, Ms. Salander. I’ll have to write up a report on the death.”
“Did she die?”
“Mrs. Forbes? No, she’s in hospital in St. George’s. Apparently she has you and your
friend to thank for the fact that she’s alive. But her husband is dead. His body was
found in a parking lot at the airport two hours ago.”
Six hundred yards further south.
“He was pretty badly knocked about,” Ferguson said.
“How unfortunate,” Salander said without any great sign of shock.
When McBain and Constable Ferguson had gone, Ella came and sat at Salander’s
table. She set down two shot glasses of rum. Salander gave her a quizzical look.
“After a night like that you need something to rebuild your strength. I’m buying.
I’m buying the whole breakfast.”
The two women looked at each other. Then they clinked glasses and said, “Cheers.”
For a long time to come, Matilda would be the object of scientific studies and
discussions at meteorological institutes in the Caribbean and across the United
States. Tornadoes of Matilda’s scale were almost unknown in the region. Gradually
the experts agreed that a particularly rare constellation of weather fronts had
combined to create a “pseudo-tornado”—something that was not actually a tornado
but looked like one.
Salander did not care about the theoretical discussion. She knew what she had
seen, and she decided to try to avoid getting in the way of any of Matilda’s siblings
in the future.
Many people on the island had been injured during the night. Only one person died.
No-one would ever know what had induced Richard Forbes to go out in the midst
of a full-fledged hurricane, save possibly that sheer ignorance which seemed
common to American tourists. Geraldine Forbes was not able to offer any
explanation. She had suffered a severe concussion and had only incoherent
memories of the events of that night.
On the other hand, she was inconsolable to have been left a widow.
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