Bubble: A Thriller Read online

  But the only unusual thing she found was that the sender had spelled her first name with ck instead of cc.

  Surely Mange of all people ought to be able to spell her name?

  Unless . . .

  She typed Rebecka into the password box and pressed Enter. The window changed color and suddenly she was in.

  The site looked like a Wikipedia page, in fact was so similar that it was hard to see the difference. But she was pretty sure this particular page wasn’t available on the online version.

  The Game

  also known as the Circus, the Event, or the Performance—is the name of a secret military project that was set up in the USA, probably sometime during the 1950s.

  The Game was originally a subordinate part of the so-called MK-ULTRA Project, which was established to conduct research into various forms of brainwashing and mind control (see also Manchurian Candidate).

  Unlike the MK-ULTRA Project, which used different types of drugs and compulsion to force its subjects to act in certain ways, the researchers involved in the Game applied a diametrically opposite methodology.

  By using various forms of powerful positive stimuli, including affirmation, praise, and idolatry, researchers successfully encouraged many of their subjects to carry out actions that they had declared at the outset of the experiment that they would never do.

  In the Game, the research subjects—who all demonstrated narcissistic personality characteristics—were placed in different types of scenarios suited to their individual psyches.

  Some were led to experience the feeling of taking part in a sporting occasion, others of being in a film or a significant political event. What all the subjects had in common was that they were treated like stars, and that they were manipulated into believing there was a large audience watching and admiring their actions and following every step they took.

  By enhancing the test subjects’ exaggerated self-image in various ways, and making them the central characters in a larger context, the researchers soon managed to persuade many of them to shift their boundaries voluntarily and carry out numerous dramatic actions.

  Some members of the military personnel connected to the project even began to bet on how far each test subject would be prepared to go, hence the origins of the name the Game.

  Both MK-ULTRA and its subsidiary projects were shut down in the 1970s, but there is evidence to indicate that the Game escaped and developed a life of its own.

  This evidence suggests that the Game, led by an individual known as the Game Master, has used various forms of advanced psychological manipulation to persuade apparently ordinary people to carry out inexplicable and occasionally drastic tasks. The same sources indicate that the Game has recruited a cadre of assistants, so-called Ants, to provide information and carry out simpler tasks. They prepare the ground for the more active participants, who are known as Players.

  There are several well-known events that are occasionally attributed to the Game, including murders, arson, sabotage, and theft, but, as with most other conspiracy theories, there is a lack of conclusive evidence . . .

  This absence of proof is believed to be the result of the Game devoting much of its energy to ensuring that it remains hidden. As a result, this very lack of evidence is—paradoxically—taken by some as an indication in itself of the existence of the Game.

  Rebecca read the page three times, then did a screen dump and printed out several copies.

  It all fit perfectly with Henke’s fragmentary descriptions and her own observations, but also with the information that Uncle Tage had confided to her.

  There really was a Game, which manipulated people into carrying out various acts. Which could incite people to do completely insane things.

  Poor, self-obsessed fools who didn’t think the world properly appreciated their unique talents and significance and were prepared to do almost anything to get a bit of approval.

  People just like Henke.

  And her dad . . .

  But whose version of the story was the right one?

  Uncle Tage had helped her, in the aftermath of events in Darfur when she was under suspicion of gross misuse of office, but also with the weapons license and, most recently, the recording from the bank vault.

  He had told her about her dad’s dark past, and—even though she’d had to drag it out of him—he had finally revealed more confidential information to her than he should have.

  On the other hand, she had known Mange all her life, and the idea that he might be a criminal mastermind still felt unreal, to put it mildly. But Mange had demonstrably lied to her face and had admitted as much himself. All he had given her was the information on the web page, information that didn’t actually prove anything.

  So whose version was true?

  Who could she trust?

  Which of them could help her rescue Henke?

  She leaned back in the sofa and went through everything that had happened in the last few days once more, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Even though it was the middle of summer, the wooden seat still felt ice-cold on his ass.

  The planks of the toilet door had shrunk and let in enough light for him to see the earwigs running about at the foot of the door.

  Jeff and Hasselqvist had got busy with the equipment immediately after the run-through. He had hoped to get a private chat with Nora, but she seemed to prefer hanging out with Mange in the kitchen. So Mother Nature got his undivided attention instead.

  It was actually pretty sweet, taking a dump outside, at least in the summer. Obviously there was no toilet paper, but there was a bundle of old newspapers that would probably do the job. And—handily—they also fulfilled his almost obsessive need to read something while he took a crap.

  Upsala Nya Tidning. Uppsala’s new newspaper . . .

  Well, this one was from 1986, so it wasn’t that new anymore.

  33-year-old released from custody

  Police: no comment

  The thirty-three-year-old . . . wasn’t that the first guy arrested for Palme’s murder? Ended up getting shot in the States, if he remembered rightly . . . Speaking of the USA, PayTag were devious bastards. Together with the Game Master, they’d managed to fuck him over more than once, getting him tortured in Dubai, then using him to sink ArgosEye so that they could turn the merry widow, Anna Argos, into their new superstar . . .

  And what had he got in return?

  A couple of million as payment, but that was probably loose change to a company like PayTag. A shitty little accounting error!

  And now they’d spent the past few weeks trying to break him and had come pretty fucking close to succeeding. And now every police force in Sweden was looking for him . . . So why the hell was he stupid enough to consider sticking his head into the lion’s den again?

  Well . . .

  Revenge was obviously one motivation, and a damn strong one at that.

  Just the thought of the look on the Game Master’s face when their main sponsor suddenly discovered a spoke in their wheel was worth the risk. He, Black, and Anna Argos all in the same room, shouting at one another. So fucking sweet!

  But there were other factors.

  The excitement.

  The thrill of the chase.

  Besides, he had a whole load of mysteries to unravel, and not just concerning the gang he was with.

  Who was the Carer? And what was the Luttern labyrinth, where it looked like the bomb was going to be placed? Who was it going to be aimed at?

  And, maybe most important of all: how did Becca fit into all of this?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She’s sitting in the passenger seat.

  Dad’s driving, Mom and Henke are in the back.

  They’re weaving through a maze of narrow streets, and only when she sees the huge church on the hill to their left does she realize where they are.

  Döbelnsgatan, next to Johannes Church, on their way up t
he Brunkeberg Ridge in Stockholm.

  Henke is no more than six or seven years old, and he’s making a fuss in the backseat. Mom’s trying to keep him quiet, telling him it’s not far now. Dad says nothing, but she can see his jaw clench.

  “Are we nearly there yet?” Henke whines, and she turns around to help Mom.

  That’s when she sees him.

  He’s standing completely still a short way into the darkened churchyard and seems to be watching them as the car slowly glides past. In one hand she can make out the glow of a cigar. In the other he is holding a stick. Without really knowing why, she raises her hand to wave.

  “Do you know John Earnest, Rebecca?” her mom asks gently.

  “Quiet!” Dad suddenly roars, and Henke starts crying.

  “Make him shut up, for God’s sake!” She sees his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Mom shouts back something that she doesn’t hear.

  She raises her hands and presses them to her ears.

  But the voice goes on whispering inside her head.

  Do you know John Earnest, Rebecca?

  The car carries on through the slush, and suddenly she realizes where they’re going.

  As they reach the top of the hill and Döbelnsgatan turns into Malmskillnadsgatan, the scenario suddenly changes.

  Now it’s her adult self sitting behind the wheel.

  The sound of Henke crying is still coming from the backseat, but when she looks in the rearview mirror she sees Tage Sammer’s face instead.

  “Forward, Rebecca, not backward. You have to look forward,” he says in a tone of voice that’s so sad it pains her heart.

  And, just as she looks back at the road, he’s suddenly there, right in front of the hood. A man dressed in a dark jacket with the collar turned up around his face. He must have come up the steep steps off to the right. The steps that lead down to Tunnelgatan, where a prime minister is lying, dying.

  She slams on the brakes, the wheels lock, and the car carries on sliding forward through the slush.

  Straight toward the man.

  Henke’s crying is turning into a scream.

  She releases the brakes, then slams them on again.

  Trying to get a grip.

  But it’s hopeless.

  The man turns his head, holds his hand toward her, as if to protect himself. Then she sees the revolver in his other hand.

  “Daddy, noooo!!” Henke screams.

  Or is she the one who says it?

  Then she hears another voice, far away.

  It’s calling her name.

  Rebecca, Rebecca.

  And the very moment she wakes up, she finally realizes what it is that’s wrong.

  The name.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She lay still on the sofa for a few minutes, thinking, fitting the new information into everything she had been through over the past few days.

  Then she got up, fetched her cell phone, and scrolled through the contacts until she found the right number.

  “It’s me,” she said as soon as the man at the other end answered. “I think I understand how it all fits together now. Dad, Henke, the Game—everything.

  “Just tell me what you want me to do!”

  24

  CORPORATE INVASION OF PRIVATE MEMORY

  HE’D JUST TAKEN the first drag of his morning cigarette and was on his way around the corner of the barn when he heard their voices and stopped abruptly.

  “He can’t be trusted, don’t you get that?” Jeff snarled. “He’s way too involved, he’s done too much . . .”

  “Like me, you mean?”

  Nora’s voice, just a meter or so away.

  HP pressed against the wall and pricked his ears.

  “That’s different. This guy’s got no scruples at all.”

  Ah, so the loving couple didn’t trust Mange either, or at least one of them didn’t. Maybe he’d have to upgrade Jeff a bit, the guy clearly wasn’t as stupid as he looked.

  “Everyone deserves another chance, Jeff. Besides, we need him.”

  “I have no problem giving people a second chance, Nora, but they have to show some sign of regret first. Show they’ve changed. But he still doesn’t think of anyone but himself, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that?”

  HP couldn’t help grinning. A lovers’ tiff out here in the bush . . .

  “You’re just annoyed because he spray-painted your door . . .”

  HP’s smile died instantly.

  “I had to spend seven hours in A&E because of that, if you remember?”

  “Yes, and I really do appreciate you doing this for me, Jeff . . .”

  HP pulled a face. As if it wasn’t enough that he was the one they were talking about, Nora’s voice also had a tender quality that he didn’t like.

  “I’ll always be grateful to you for helping me. Without you I’d still be stuck in the Game . . .” she continued.

  Then there was a short silence, and HP suddenly got the feeling they’d realized he was eavesdropping on them.

  But then she went on.

  “You know this is important. Not just for me, but for everyone they’ve exploited and are still exploiting. If we can do this, then it’s all over . . .”

  Jeff muttered something inaudible.

  “Give him a chance, Jeff, that’s all I’m asking . . .”

  Fuck!

  The burned-out cigarette was searing his fingers, and he was forced to drop it in the grass and stamp on it hard several times to put it out.

  When he looked around the corner Jeff and Nora were gone, but at least he was a bit wiser.

  Jeff obviously wasn’t a fan of his, not that he had ever had any reason to believe that he was, which pretty much meant the musclebound lunk could be removed from the list of candidates for A.F. But, on the other hand, Biffalo Bull could still be a traitor, at least as long as the treachery didn’t affect Nora.

  He walked around the corner and slipped slowly into the barn. Hasselqvist was busy doing something right at the back of the van.

  “Hi, Kent,” HP shouted through the open side door. Hasselqvist jumped and dropped whatever it was he was holding.

  A round object, a bit like an ice-hockey puck, came rolling across the floor toward the door. Hasselqvist leaped at it but HP was quicker.

  “So what have we got here, then?” he said jokily, holding the puck up.

  Hasselqvist grabbed it out of his hands.

  “None of your business!” he snarled, and HP took an involuntary step back.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  But Hasselqvist pulled the door shut right in his face. But no matter, he’d had time to read the inscription on the side of the little puck.

  Elite GPS 512.

  Interesting.

  Very interesting . . .

  He carried on through the barn and into the house. Mange was bent over his laptop but looked up as soon as HP came into the kitchen.

  “Hi,” he said, slightly too loudly.

  HP merely nodded in response.

  “Look, I know you’re pissed off with me, HP . . .”

  “No shit . . .”

  “. . . and you’ve got every right to be. I lied to you, more than once. And I really am sorry about that . . .”

  He smiled uncertainly.

  “But, like I keep saying, I really was trying to help. I’ve been watching your back . . . yours and Becca’s . . .”

  “What do you know about Becca?!”

  Mange grimaced.

  “Not as much as I’d like. I have a well-placed source close to Sammer, but all I really know is that he and Becca have met a few times. Sammer seems very interested in her, that much is pretty obvious, but I still don’t know exactly how she fits into the picture. Like I said before, the Game Master doesn’t give away any information unless he has to. But right now she’s not in any immediate danger, I know that much. Sammer seems totally fixated on you . . .”

  “Okay, good . . .” HP took a deep breath. “Wh
at’s the Luttern labyrinth, and who’s the Carer? How do they fit into the picture?”

  “W-what?”

  “Come on, Mange, don’t act stupid. The flat next to mine, the workshop, the snakes . . . ?”

  He fixed his eyes on Mange, looking for the slightest sign of weakness. But he couldn’t see any, not a flutter of the eyelids or an involuntary twitch.

  “I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about, HP . . .”

  “And you expect me to believe you, just like that? Your credibility isn’t particularly high right now, Mange . . .”

  “Come on, HP, I’ve said I’m sorry . . .” Even Mange’s voice passed the test. Not the slightest tremor . . .

  “I don’t know everything that’s going on—like I said, the Game Master doesn’t let anyone else see the whole picture. All I’ve got are fragments. Please, tell me about the flat. Everything’s connected, one way or another . . .”

  HP glared at Mange as he considered what to do.

  Okay, so Mange was a liar, but the lies had actually been meant well. And they were old friends . . . correction: best friends.

  He’d always thought of Mange as a bit of a coward, a computer geek, and—more recently—a henpecked husband under the thumb of his dragon of a wife. But, even though it hurt to admit it, he had been wrong. Mange was no coward and had actually shown himself to be a pretty capable guy.

  Besides, now that he came to think about it, he had actually suspected Mange from day one—in fact, from the moment he found that damn phone on the train. So, looking at it one way, he hadn’t been completely taken in. He hadn’t been totally blind.

  But it still made sense to keep some things to himself. Having a slight advantage when it came to information wouldn’t hurt at all.

  “That can wait,” he finally said. “So, remind me again why I should go along with this idiotic plan?”

  “Sure, no problem.” The disappointment in Mange’s voice was obvious. “Take a look at this.”

  Mange reached for the table and turned the laptop so HP could see the screen.

  “I’ve made a list of clients who have already begun to store their data down in that bunker. Sit down . . .”

  Mange pointed at one of the chairs. He opened an Excel file and started scrolling through the list.