Buzz: A Thriller Read online

  But then his fingertips touched something hard, and he breathed out.

  How damned paranoid could you get?

  In purely logical terms, the toilets in the departure hall were the perfect hiding place. Basically impossible to monitor. But logic was nowhere near enough to explain why he had decided to pick up the silvery little phone.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It took him almost five days to pull himself together. He stayed shut in his room, sleeping like a corpse, and only getting up to go to the toilet or let room service in—which at this elegant establishment meant paying the bonked-out-looking bloke in reception to close his hatch and go across the street to McDonald’s.

  But as the days drifted past even the receptionist began to give him funny looks through the crack in the door, and eventually HP realized he was going to have to get his shit together.

  So at least now he had more or less cleaned himself up.

  The washed-out dressing gown he had pulled on after his much-needed shower lay in a heap on the stained carpet. He had only had it on for a few seconds when the feeling and smell of wet toweling made him pull it off in panic.

  The television was showing pretty much the same shit as usual.

  Channel Five proudly presents: semifamous people allowing themselves to be humiliated in new ways.

  Zap.

  American sitcom on Six—season ten, episode sixty-eight . . .

  Zap.

  Advert for Dressmann.

  Zap.

  Award-winning Iranian women’s drama—on the national broadcaster, SVT, where else . . . ?

  Double zap!

  A crime series, featuring some sort of serial killer. Big surprise . . .

  Zap again.

  Big Brother, version 4.5.

  Zap.

  Ice hockey . . .

  Zap.

  Sitcom . . .

  Zap.

  A repeat of Swedish Idol.

  Zap.

  Advert for Dress . . .

  Zap.

  Zap.

  ZAP!!

  He thought about pressing the pay-TV button and ordering a ridiculously overpriced porn film, but for some reason he wasn’t in the mood. Instead he switched to one of the radio stations playing rock classics, got out of bed, and dug out a notepad and pen from the battered little desk.

  He opened the window the five centimeters permitted by the safety catch, clambered up onto the windowsill, and lit a cigarette. There may have been No Smoking stickers here and there, but to judge by the smell and the nicotine-stained embossed wallpaper, he was hardly the first person to break that particular rule.

  All his credit cards had been taken from him in Dubai—they told him they were fake, which in a way was true. Fortunately they had missed the backup card he had had the foresight to stick between the layers of rubber on one of his flip-flops.

  Twenty thousand in the account—enough to be able to book in anonymously here at the Hotel California, and buy the essentials. As soon as he could get back online it would be simple enough to top up his account.

  “Laptop,” he scrawled on the pad, then, after a brief hesitation:

  “Cell.”

  He cast a long glance at the little wardrobe.

  He’d taped the phone to the back of one of the drawers, and for a moment he was seized by an almost irresistible urge to get it out and look at it.

  Just for a few minutes . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  You have to put a stop to this, Normén!

  It was way past one o’clock at night, but as usual she was wide awake. She glanced at the sleeping form beside her on the mattress, trying to identify what she felt for it, but didn’t really succeed.

  Sex—that was all this was about, at least for her. An undemanding fuck—enough to fend off the angst for a few hours.

  She wasn’t entirely sure if it was the purely technical aspects that made the sex good, or if it was because what they were doing was forbidden.

  Probably a mixture of the two.

  Either way, she couldn’t carry on like this. She was starting to get paranoid, imagining that people were staring at her when she was on her way to their sordid little meetings. She had to put a stop to this, once and for all. Preferably today, or at the very latest by the end of the week, she thought, letting her hand slide over the pale back beside her. The touch made the back’s owner turn toward her and pull her closer. A hand roamed over her breast, then warm breath on her skin.

  By Friday at the latest, she thought.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The list—he had to focus on the list and get his shit together.

  He added clothes, toiletries, and some other useful stuff before he stopped again. Through the television, the radio was playing a Neil Young song that he recognized, and he sat still in the window and listened aimlessly until the obligatory ad break made him start thinking again.

  So, what exactly were his plans?

  Questions were still buzzing around inside his head like a swarm of angry hornets, but he had no answers. Or rather: he had far too many, and his five days of R&R had unfortunately left him none the wiser.

  Obviously he ought to get out of the city. That was practically a no-brainer.

  But he was fed up with running—completely absolutely done with it.

  Wasn’t it actually pretty smart to hide right here, right under their noses? Surely this would be the last place anyone would ever think of looking?

  The problem was that no matter how much of a stroke of genius this Million Dollar Hotel was, he couldn’t stay up here pulling his Anne Frank routine for the rest of his life. He was a social creature; he’d already tried living as a hermit and had almost gone mad as a result. If he carried on along that path it would end with “Brooks was here” and a length of venetian-blind cord from a lamp hook, he was pretty sure of that.

  He finished his cigarette, flicked the butt out of the window, two stories down into the courtyard. The fall through the air made it glow until it suddenly went out as it hit the damp little patch of grass below his window.

  Whatever had actually happened out there in the desert, it had something to do with his mysterious compatriot Anna Argos, and if he was the least bit interested in making any sense of this whole crazy story, he had to start with her. The only question was how.

  He glanced at the wardrobe again as he felt in the packet for another cigarette, then realized at the same moment that he’d just smoked his last one.

  Freaking bollocks!

  “Cigs,” he wrote on the list, then began, without any great expectation, to search through the pile of used clothes in the hope of finding a forgotten little cigarette butt.

  Instead he found himself holding a business card in his hand. The little white rectangle contained a long sequence of handwritten numbers that started with +971, and he was just about to toss Moussad’s contact details in the trash when he realized there was something on the other side.

  ArgosEye.com

  Knowledge · Security · Control

  And suddenly he had an idea.

  A crazy, screwed-up, stupid idea that he turned over in his mind for several minutes before making the decision. It was hardly going to be easy—possibly actually life-threatening.

  But just the thought of what he was considering made him feel insanely excited.

  Better to burn out than fade away!

  12

  ROLE PLAY

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: business details as per order number 2352/11

  Company name: ArgosEye.com

  Type of company: Limited

  Address: Sergels Square 12, 111 57 Stockholm

  OMX abbreviation: N/A—company not listed on stock market

  Authorized signatories: Argos, Anna; Argos, Philip J.

  Results and accounts: See appendix A

  History

  The company was originally founded in 1998 by An
na Argos and several of her fellow students at the Stockholm School of Economics (see appendix C).

  According to the company’s business description, it offered IT consultancy services. Like many other businesses in the same branch, it profited from the IT boom of the late nineties, and at its height had one hundred employees in ten countries, with a turnover of approximately one hundred million kronor. A stock-market launch was planned but never carried out as a result of the general decline in the market during the early 2000s.

  In 2001 the company suffered a serious decline in profitability, and all its offices except Stockholm were closed, and almost all staff made redundant.

  In 2002 Anna Argos bought out the other partners and took over management of the company.

  Between 2002 and 2005 the company began to focus more on various IT-related communications strategies and slowly began to grow once more.

  In 2006 Anna Argos married Philip John Martinsson, who adopted her surname.

  He became a partner in the company at the same time.

  Martinsson has a background in military intelligence and the security service, where he worked on risk and crisis management in communications. He also worked for the American PR agency Burston-Marsteiner, leaving with excellent references to take up the post of MD of ArgosEye.

  Current activities

  Under Philip Argos’s leadership, ArgosEye has chosen to focus primarily on questions of Internet-related communications risk and crisis management, popularly known as “Buzz control”—an area in which, in spite of the company’s relatively limited size, it has quickly become a significant player. Buzz control is regarded as highly sensitive and is therefore surrounded by a great deal of secrecy. It is therefore unclear precisely how many companies have employed ArgosEye’s offices. However, according to unconfirmed sources, a number of Swedish and foreign multinationals already use ArgosEye’s services, but this is most likely to happen indirectly through other consultancy agencies rather than as direct clients.

  Internet searches for ArgosEye generate key words such as “Internet strategies,” “communication,” “risk management,” “Buzz control,” “toplist optimization,” “social media strategies,” and “crisis management.”

  The company’s turnover and number of employees have increased rapidly in recent years, which has meant that the company has occasionally had difficulties with short-term liquidity. In order to continue to expand, the company will probably have to depend upon an injection of external capital, suggesting that stock-market flotation is likely.

  Ownership

  Anna Argos is registered with the Swedish Patent and Registration Office as owning 40% of the shares in ArgosEye Ltd.

  The remainder of the shares are owned by a number of minority shareholders of whom Philip Argos, with 20%, has the largest holding (see complete list in appendix B).

  Other information

  The Argoses first filed for divorce early in 2008, but this was withdrawn before the trial period elapsed. A second application was made during the latter half of 2009, and Roslagen District Court authorized the divorce in April 2010. Shortly after that the villa they shared in Täby was sold.

  Both parties have until recently been registered as living at separate addresses in central Stockholm.

  Anna Argos applied to the Tax Office to be removed from their register as recently as one month ago.

  According to this application, she is currently living in London, England. The extent to which she is still involved in the daily activity of the company is unclear.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Central Investigation Office, Westergren.”

  “Hello, this is Rebecca Normén from the Bodyguard Unit.”

  She was making an effort to keep her voice neutral. There were a few moments’ silence on the line.

  “I see. And how can I help you?”

  Westergren’s tone of voice was curt but not directly unpleasant. Not much, anyway . . .

  “I was just wondering how far you’d got with my case? If anything new has emerged?”

  More silence.

  “And what might that be, Normén?”

  Nice move—turning the question back on her. Pretending nothing had happened and making her lay her own cards on the table.

  But she had already noted the faint hint of annoyance in his voice and sidestepped the trap.

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me, Westergren,” she replied.

  Several more seconds of silence.

  “I know exactly why you’re calling, Normén,” he suddenly snarled. “You, Runeberg, and your other colleagues have had plenty of time to work something out, which is exactly what I told the prosecutor a short while ago. You can tell Ludvig that we haven’t got anything new to say and that the case is still very much open!”

  The line went dead.

  Rebecca slowly put the receiver down.

  So what did this mean?

  Well, in the unlikely event that it was Modin who filed the complaint against her, then her altered testimony ought to have punctured the entire investigation. The prosecutor was usually quick to write off shaky cases like this, and simultaneously improve the statistics, seeing as “case abandoned” was, oddly enough, a result . . .

  But Modin had never been the prime suspect, so this whole line of reasoning was probably largely theoretical. For instance, why would Modin report her for misuse of office only to change her mind a few days later . . . ?

  Considerably more interesting were the circumstances surrounding her altered testimony. Rebecca could actually understand why Westergren was so annoyed. Even if Modin had done her best to make her story sound believable when they spoke, it still didn’t sound quite right, more like something she’d come up with later on. But on paper the story worked perfectly. No precise details that could be checked, no absolute contradictions that would sound odd after her original statement. Taken as a whole, Modin’s version of events did actually strengthen her own. So she should really just be grateful for it . . .

  If David Malmén really was the person who, one way or another, had “helped” Modin to remember, then Rebecca had seriously misjudged him, clearly. Although of course it was also possible that her deputy was acting on orders from above . . .

  No matter, she could remove him and Modin from the list of suspects, and with them probably the other two members of the team. Which left just the embassy counselor, Gladh. Not really much of a surprise.

  She was back to square one again—but at least she no longer had to watch her back.

  At least she hoped not . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  He had laid everything out on the stained bedspread. Every item neatly arranged so he could tick it off his list. He felt like some secret agent getting ready for a dangerous mission. Which might well turn out to be the case . . .

  The paranoia that had followed him halfway around the world had grown stronger, which probably wasn’t that strange really. Somewhere out there, there were people looking for him, people who wanted nothing more than to get their hands on Player 128 and hand him over to the Game Master.

  But he had to try to shake it off. There was no proof that they had found him, none at all. He was still one step ahead, and as long as he trod carefully and didn’t wake up any guard dogs then that would remain the case.

  What he really needed to do was focus on his new mission.

  He opened his laptop and started to type out a message, but stopped after just a couple of sentences.

  Shit, in the bitter glare of hindsight he could see that picking up the phone hadn’t exactly been his smartest move. Okay, so it was switched off and drained of power. Not even the best batteries in the world would last fourteen months, so he wasn’t worried about being traced.

  His problem went rather deeper than that.

  Even though the phone was physically stone-dead, it was as if it were still sending out signals.

  Inaudible little enticements to the part of his brain
that still longed for everything the Game could offer him.

  And that was presumably why he hadn’t been able to leave it where it was out at Arlanda.

  Just holding it felt undeniably good. Feeling the cool metal against the palm of his hand, his fingertips sliding over the touch screen.

  And for a few seconds, a few wonderful seconds, the feeling was back.

  Introducing Player 128, first runner-up, the public’s favorite—the hottest guy in the Game. Hennnnnrik Petterrrssonnn!

  Almost all phones could be charged up the same way these days. A little cable to one of the computer’s USB ports was all it would take . . .

  But obviously he wasn’t going to switch it on, he wasn’t completely thick, for fuck’s sake!

  There were plenty of other things to be getting on with, ways to keep his mind occupied and at a safe distance from that lethal track. It was just like that mental exercise.

  Whenever you think about the Game, you lose!

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Hi, Rebecca, this is Håkan! Håkan Berglund,” he clarified when she didn’t say anything.

  “Oh, hi . . .”

  She was holding the phone between her cheek and shoulder so she could pour a cup of coffee.

  “I’m back in Stockholm and was wondering if you felt like having that meal we talked about. How about this Friday?”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea . . .” she began.

  “Oh, come on!” he interrupted. “I got the feeling we clicked pretty well, and I’d like to see you again. I can pick you up around seven . . .”

  She sighed.

  Evidently she’d got Håkan Berglund all wrong.

  The fact that he dared to call at all was pretty surprising in itself, considering how little he’d done to support her down in Darfur. And now he didn’t seem to be the sort who could take a hint.

  She really didn’t like pushy people.

  “Sorry, Håkan, but I’ve actually already got a boyfriend,” she said bluntly.

  There was silence on the line.

  “Hello?” she said.

  But he had already hung up.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Magnus Sandström?”

  “That’s me.”