Page 63 of The Collector
He indicated the copy ofThe Beautiful andDamned. “Are you going to buy that one?”
“Not at thirty-five.” She closed the book’s cover. “Too rich for my blood.”
“You’re Danish,” he informed her.
“I’m afraid so,” she answered, switching languages.
“Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Larsen.” She drew the copy ofThe Power of Tomorrowfrom her handbag. “In fact, I’m coming to your speech this afternoon.”
“Are you in Berlin for the energy summit?”
“I live here, actually.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“A consulting startup,” she said, and then explained.
“We’re doing extraordinary things with wind,” said Magnus Larsen the visionary. “It’s ten percent of our business, and growing.”
“Yes, I know. DanskOil is the example we hold up to the rest of the industry.” She offered him the book. “Perhaps you would sign it for me now and save me the trouble of having to stand in a line.”
“I rather doubt you’ll have to wait long.”
“Does that mean you won’t sign it?”
“Not if it means I won’t see you later.”
She slid the book into her handbag and started for the door.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” said Magnus.
She stopped and turned. “It’s Eva.”
“Eva what?”
“Westergaard.”
“Give me a moment to pay for this, Eva Westergaard, and I’ll take you back to the Congress Center.”
“That’s really not necessary, Mr. Larsen.”
“Of course it is.” He pointed toward the copy ofThe Beautiful andDamned. “That one, too, Günther.”
She tried to object, but it was no use. The indomitable Magnus Larsen wouldn’t hear of it. The deal was done, he declared. There was no going back.
“But it’s thirty-five thousand euros.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I put it on my DanskOil expense account?”
“Heavens no.”
The book was balanced on Ingrid’s knees, wrapped in protective polypropylene, as they sped eastward across the Tiergarten in Magnus’s hired Mercedes limousine. When they arrived at the Congress Center, she once again attempted to take her leave, but Magnus insisted that she accompany him to the green room where he would prepare for his appearance. It took place, as scheduled, at 4:00 p.m., not in the center’s cavernous main hall but in a smaller auditorium on the second level. The audience was respectable; Magnus’s remarks were well received. Ingrid sat in the front row. Her two colleagues from LNT Consulting were not in attendance.
She waited until the signing line had ebbed before approaching the table. Magnus’s inscription was kind but not suggestive, nothing that might come back to bite him.
“Where are you off to?” he asked as he screwed the cap onto his Montblanc pen.
