Game: A Thriller Read online

  It would be at least three minutes until reinforcements arrived, probably nearer to five, she calculated rapidly. She could only hope that Bengt hadn’t dozed off behind the wheel so they could make a quick getaway.

  Just as they got back to the corner of the building their attackers made a new attempt to reach Rebecca and her charge. Something came flying through the air and she hit out at it automatically with her baton.

  Rock, bottle, hand grenade? she managed to think before tepid liquid rained down on her face and upper body. Dear God, please don’t let it be gasoline!

  Finally, they were around the corner again and she looked quickly behind her for Bengt, hoping that he remembered enough of his minimal training to have opened the car doors for them.

  But the turning circle where the car had been parked was empty.

  “Fuck!” she hissed but was drowned out by the assistant’s screams.

  “Blood!” he cried, almost in falsetto. “Christ, I’m bleeding!”

  Rebecca twisted her head again and suddenly realized she was having trouble seeing. A red fog was descending over her eyes and she rubbed the hand holding the baton across her nose.

  No car, no Bengt, and their attackers right behind them. What to do?

  Make a decision, Normén, make a decision now! her brain shrieked at her.

  Backward known and secure, forward unknown and dangerous. But what to do if your escape route had suddenly been cut off? They didn’t teach you that on the bodyguard course. Improvisation had never exactly been her strong point. She was close to panic.

  “Over here!” she heard a voice shout.

  The guard had opened the door wide and had taken up a position halfway between it and her. He’d drawn his baton and was staring at the corner where their attackers ought to have appeared by now.

  With a couple of quick strides Rebecca half-pulled and half-shoved the minister for integration through the door that they had left just a few minutes before. She could still hear the assistant’s hysterical sobbing behind her but paid him no attention, concentrating on getting her charge to safety.

  It wasn’t until several minutes later, after reinforcements had arrived and the situation had calmed down, that she realized that the whole of her upper body was covered in blood.

  2

  TRIAL

  Dear HP

  This is a trial game worth 100 points. Try it out, and if you like the experience, decide if you want to continue playing. This is your task: At the next station a man in a light coat will get on the train. The man will be carrying a red umbrella. For 100 points, you must take the umbrella before the train reaches Stockholm Central. If you succeed I will unlock the phone and it will be yours to use as long as you participate in the Game.

  Do you understand?

  Yes

  No

  This was actually fucking cool. HP grinned to himself as he clicked on Yes. Real Mission: Impossible stuff—all that was missing was the dry voice and the telephone going up in smoke.

  “This message will self-destruct in ten seconds . . .”

  He still hadn’t managed to work out which one of the other passengers was working for Mange, but it didn’t really matter. He thought he had a pretty good idea of what it was all about now. Either he was expected to chicken out and would have to put up with weeks of crap about what a coward he was, or else—and this was more likely, now he came to think about it—there’d be some trick with the umbrella. It would be glued down, or would spray water, or give him an electric shock when he tried to grab it, and one or other of the passengers would film it so he could enjoy his humiliation on YouTube for months to come. It really was a beautiful setup, and now it was too late to back out.

  Excellent!

  When you get the signal to start playing, fix the phone to your clothes with the camera facing out, so we can see how you get on with your task.

  Do you understand?

  Yep, he understood. Fix the phone to his front, camera outward.

  YouTube, here I come!

  HP grinned again. God, Mange was an ingenious bastard. This set a whole new standard. As he clicked on Yes once more, he realized to his surprise that his hangover was almost gone.

  Good, HP!

  You can start your task.

  Good luck!

  The screen went dark.

  Okay, better follow the rules for a bit longer, he thought, and attached the phone to his belt, with the camera facing out, as per the instructions.

  As the train pulled slowly into Sollentuna Station he could feel his heart start to beat faster.

  The man with the light coat got on at the far end of the carriage and it took a few moments before HP saw him. An ordinary-looking Swede, about forty, one meter eighty or so, same as him. Dark-framed glasses, hair combed back, a summer suit and coat, he noted as the train set off from the platform. That had to be hot?

  The man’s lower half was hidden, so HP couldn’t see if he really was carrying an umbrella. There was only one way to find out.

  He stood up and started moving slowly through the carriage toward the man. For some reason he had started to sweat, his T-shirt was sticking to his chest, and his palms itched, but this time it was more than just the hangover.

  As he passed the teenage girls one of them suddenly burst out laughing and the sound made him jump. Pull yourself together, this is only a game, an elaborate prank, nothing to get excited about. Stealing a crummy umbrella was hardly that much of a challenge for him. He’d nicked considerably better things than that.

  Now he could see that the man was carrying a black-and-white paper bag, one of those designer ones with a rope handle and a big logo to show the world that he could afford to shop in the smartest shops. A cylindrical object stuck up from one side of the bag. The umbrella!

  HP felt his pulse start to race. He had to admit that this was actually pretty exciting. Stealing something while the whole thing was being filmed . . .

  Okay, so the man in the coat was in on the whole thing, but even so. There was something appealing about the whole situation that he couldn’t quite explain. But he really didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

  “Next stop Karlberg. Karlberg, next stop,” the speaker in the roof announced, and he felt the train start to slow down. He took a few more cautious steps toward the man, who hadn’t so much as glanced up at him.

  Then the train jolted several times and stopped at the platform. The doors opened, letting in a smell of warm tarmac and hot brakes. HP took another step forward. Here we go!

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Pigs’ blood,” Superintendent Runeberg said from behind his desk, leaning back in his chair.

  Although several hours had passed since the events outside Rosenbad, and even though the office was air-conditioned, Rebecca was still sweating. Her hair was wet from the shower, and in the absence of anything better she had put on her gym kit, the only clean clothes she had in her locker.

  “They threw pigs’ blood at you and Lessmark,” her boss went on. He was a thickset man in his midforties, with a steely gaze, spiky blond hair, and a suntan that went all the way up to his scalp.

  A perfect example of a bodyguard. Good-looking too, if you like the overpumped type, she thought.

  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 eveni
ng 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.

  3

  ARE YOU REALLY SURE YOU WANT TO ENTER?

  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. Ham
marby 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.