Game: A Thriller (3 page)

But those days were far behind her now.

Strangely, considering what had happened, she felt pretty good, with the possible exception of a bit of adrenaline-fueled trembling that she was doing her best to hide. She had done her job and her charge was okay; that was the main thing. She could think through the details later.

“According to Forensics, one of the men threw a balloon
filled with pigs’ blood at the minister for integration, but you burst it with your baton and most of the contents ended up on you. The minister escaped with a few drops on her jacket and a serious bruise on her arm from where you were holding her.”

He paused but before she could work out if she was expected to say something, he went on:

“One of the evening papers seems to have pictures already, which would explain why the third man wasn’t involved in the actual attack. Presumably he was busy taking pictures. The free market and the free press in beautiful harmony. The minister sends her thanks and best wishes, by the way. I doubt the same could be said of the perpetrators,” Runeberg said.

Rebecca gave a short nod in response.

“According to eyewitnesses, the men escaped on foot, running across Gustave Adolf Square and in through the back entrance to the Gallery shopping mall. Our uniformed colleagues in the regular force stopped the subway, but before they managed to get hold of someone in charge and the order was actually given, at least four different subway trains left Stockholm Central, and one from Kungsträdgården nearby, so if they were stupid enough not to just melt into the crowds around Sergel’s Square there were plenty of opportunities for them to get away on the subway.”

Runeberg shrugged in resignation.

“One advantage of doing this sort of thing in broad daylight in the middle of the city is that it’s a lot easier than most people think to get away,” he concluded.

“While you were cleaning yourself up I had a quick chat with your driver, Mr. Göransson. He claims that you told him to go ahead of you to the foreign ministry and wait there,
which was why you had no escape route,” Runeberg went on in a businesslike voice. Rebecca jerked in her chair.

Not only had Bengt disobeyed her orders and put her and her charge in danger, now the fat little bastard was lying to save his own skin. Trying to blame her for everything, what fucking nerve! If he’d done his job and the car had been where it should have been, she would have been fine; she could have managed perfectly well without backup.

She opened her mouth to protest, but her boss raised a hand to stop her.

“Take it easy, Normén. You don’t have to say anything, I know the bastard’s lying. In the ten months that you’ve been with us, no one’s been more by-the-book than you. You don’t do anything without considering it from every angle, and your colleagues have nothing but praise for your efforts. The other day one of them said you were one hundred ten percent professional, and I wouldn’t disagree with that assessment. You’re a pretty good bodyguard, Normén. For a rookie, anyway . . .” He grinned. “Besides, Göransson is a hopeless liar. He was sweating like a pig and was almost in tears at the end of our little talk. So, since approximately an hour ago, his services have been at the disposal of the job market. I don’t give a shit what the union says. I threw him out of the back door myself,” Runeberg concluded with a smile, nodding happily at Rebecca to confirm that he had done precisely what he said.

Little boys,
she sighed inwardly before realizing that he had actually praised her work, so she opted to lower her eyes respectfully to underline her status as grateful subordinate. As usual in this sort of system, you had to make the best of things and not make a fuss.

The fact that the guard on the door had had to help still annoyed her, but Runeberg had just called her a good bodyguard, which wasn’t bad for a
rookie
with less than a year’s experience.

Not bad at all!

♦  ♦  ♦

HP counted to ten in his head and glanced at the platform one last time before stepping up to the man in the coat. The man looked up at him in surprise from the newspaper he had just pulled out of his pocket.

“Tell Mange he’s still a carpet-licking bastard!” HP shouted into the man’s ear, as he snatched the umbrella from the paper bag and, just as the doors were beginning to close, he leaped out onto the platform. He landed so hard that he almost lost his balance and had to take a couple of lurching steps to stop himself falling flat on his face.

Fuck me!
he thought as he sprinted toward the steps at the far end of the platform. It wasn’t quite the stylish exit he had planned, but what the hell. He had the umbrella, the task was accomplished, and none of the nightmare scenarios he’d been imagining had come true. The umbrella had been no problem, no explosions, no cascade of water, and no grinning TV presenters telling him he’d just been caught on
You’ve Been Framed, Candid Camera,
or some similarly classy program.

Apart from the stumble as he left the train, everything had gone according to plan and he could relax and enjoy the adrenaline coursing through his body and driving out the last remnants of his hangover.

Not bad at all! And the guy didn’t half-look surprised when he’d told him to say hello to Mange.

Panting hard, he took the flight of steps in five long strides,
and his momentum carried him through the station and out onto Rörstrands Street. By the time he had jogged to St. Eriksplan he was soaked in sweat, even if he wasn’t particularly out of breath.

He’d always been good at running, ever since school. He wasn’t much good at most other things, but he had a decent turn of speed.

The barriers at the subway station were unmanned, so he hopped over the turnstile to get in. He didn’t give it a second thought. He’d never paid for commuter trains or the subway, not even when he could afford to. It was a matter of principle. Power to the people!

It wasn’t until he was sitting down in the carriage that he realized he still had the phone attached to his belt. He pulled it off and looked at the screen.

Congratulations, HP!

You have successfully completed your trial task and your game account has been credited with 100 points. The telephone is now unlocked and under the
Game
icon you will find more information about how to continue playing. We recommend that you read the section concerning the Rules of the Game, and think carefully about whether you want to continue playing. If you would prefer not to, our paths will go separate ways and we ask you to leave the phone in the letter box at Bellmansgatan 7.

Best wishes,

The Game Master

♦  ♦  ♦

“I was thinking about moving you up,” Runeberg said.

“Alpha needs new recruits before Sweden takes over the EU presidency. You haven’t really been on the job long enough, but after today’s events Vahtola and I agree that you’re ready. You start on Monday, assuming that Dr. Anderberg has no objections on mental health grounds. Any questions?”

She simply shook her head.

“Well done, Normén, if you carry on like this you’ll do well here,” he concluded, pushing his chair back from the desk.

“Your debriefing with Anderberg is in ten minutes. Once that’s out of the way you can finish for the week. That’s all. Right, I’m off to the gym.”

He stood up to indicate that the conversation was over, and Rebecca followed suit. Her head was spinning and she couldn’t help letting slip an unprofessional smile.

The Alpha group, the reinforcement team, the elite of the Personal Protection Unit. From Monday she would be one of them. No more beginners’ jobs, just serious, qualified bodyguards’ work.

Well done, Normén—clever girl!

When she knocked on the psychologist’s door nine minutes and fifty seconds later, she was still trying to suppress the annoying impulse to smile.

WHEN THE BELL
on the door of the stuffy little shop started playing the opening notes of the theme to
Star Wars
, Magnus Sandström—or Farook Al-Hassan, as he now called himself—gave no indication of having heard it. He just carried on reading the crumpled copy of
Metro
spread out on the counter in front of him, scarcely bothering to glance up at the visitor.

“Salaam alaikum, brother HP,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

“Hi, Mange.” HP grinned as he sauntered toward the counter. “Anything interesting in the paper today? Let me guess: the recession’s getting worse, Hammarby lost again, and some nuts blew something up somewhere, probably in Baghdad, Bombay, or maybe Timbuktu?”

“Portugal,” Mange sighed, looking up reluctantly.

“Huh?”

“The nuts blew something up in Lisbon—an empty luxury yacht, to be precise. No one knows why. But you got two out of three. Hammarby are damn useless these days.”

He folded the paper and straightened up, with a sullen look on his face.

“And you know perfectly well that I want to be called Farook now,” he added flatly.

“Of course I know, Mangey boy! If you insist on turning yourself into a second-class carpet seller, that’s your decision.”

He nodded demonstratively at Farook’s Middle Eastern trousers, silk waistcoat, and long shirt.

“Just don’t expect me to buy into that bullshit. You were Mange when we started school, when we used to smoke your mom’s cigarettes behind the Co-op, and when you lost your virginity to that fat Finnish girl in a tent at Hultsfred. So that’s who you are to me, regardless of whatever you, your wife, or your latest god think, okay?”

Mange/Farook sighed again. There was no point arguing with HP when he was in this mood, he knew that from experience. Better to change the subject completely, that usually worked. HP was fairly easily distracted.

“And to what does my humble little shop owe the honor of this visit, young Padawan?” he said instead, holding out his hands to indicate the cramped space.

The shop consisted of some thirty square meters of worn cork matting, plus a couple more hidden behind a shabby bead curtain behind the counter. Practically every available surface, as well as several that weren’t—on the floor, along the walls, and even up on the ceiling—was packed full of things, mainly computers and electronic components and accessories. Cases, hard drives, cables, print cartridges, and various USB gadgets jostled with printed signs for various games and all sorts of discontinued products. A worn-out air-conditioning unit above the door was fighting a noisy losing battle against both the summer heat outside and the warmth generated by the countless machines within the shop.

At the back of the shop two computers were whirring, ostensibly for demonstration purposes, but in practice used as an Internet café, as indicated by the neat lettering of the printed sign hanging askew above the grimy coffeemaker. The machine bore another sign offering free coffee to paying customers, but there was a distinct absence of these right now.

As usual, the lighting was subdued, mostly provided by the various screens spread around the shop. Together with the feeble fluorescent strip light above the counter, these made up the only opposition to the sheets of paper taped across the barred window that effectively blocked out all sunlight.

HP pulled the cell phone out of his inside pocket. With a triumphant gesture he slapped it on the counter in front of Mange.

Game over, mothafucker!

But instead of giving up and admitting everything, Mange merely adjusted his dark-framed glasses and leaned forward with interest.

“A new cell . . . pretty cool design. Haven’t seen one like that before. Found or bought?” he summarized as he looked up again.

“You tell me, Mange.” HP grinned, but without quite achieving the degree of triumph he was hoping for in either the comment or the smile.

The confidence he had felt when he slapped the phone on the counter had vanished. This wasn’t turning out the way he’d expected. Mange had never been able to keep a straight face, even when it didn’t really matter. When they were younger, Mange had let HP and the others down more than once, and he had been expecting him either to confess at once, or to make a pathetic and embarrassing attempt at denial. But neither
had happened, and his hastily improvised Plan B, which involved staring angrily at Mangelito, met with the same meager response.

Not a hint, not a blink or a twitch of the eye—none of the things that usually happened to a little geek when he was out of his depth. And his voice passed the test too . . .

“Huh . . . what you talking about, brother?”

HP tilted his head and made a last, halfhearted attempt.

“So you’re telling me you don’t know anything about the little practical joke someone played on me on the train from Märsta half an hour or so ago?”

“Nope, not a clue, scout’s honor,” Mange said, raising two fingers to where his hairline had once been.

“Do you feel like initiating me into the mysteries of the Märsta train over a cup of Java?” he asked, taking another look at the cell, evidently keen to get to know it better.

“Sure,” HP muttered.

So what the fuck was really going on?

♦  ♦  ♦

“Well, if you don’t have any questions, we’re done here.”

Rebecca shook her head and was off the sofa before the psychologist had time to stand up. She knew that debriefing was important and that it was just standard procedure after an incident like the one she had been involved in earlier, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

She didn’t like talking in confidence to strangers; she’d had more than enough of that growing up. Even though she couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old when it started, it hadn’t taken her long to work out the “right” answers. Wide-open eyes, a childlike smile, just enough
confidentiality for the lies to sound sincere. It had worked well then, and it was surprisingly easy to use the same technique, with only modest adjustments, in the adult world.

“Thanks, Dr. Anderberg, I’m a bit shaken, but basically I’m fine,” and a few more similar standard-issue clichés. The same shaky smile and shy eye contact, that usually worked. But today it felt unusually difficult. Her words rang slightly false, and the performance wasn’t as convincing as usual. She was having trouble keeping track of her thoughts and focusing.