Bubble: A Thriller Read online

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  HP dashed out of the café, raced around the corner, and tore off toward Hötorget. In the distance he thought he could hear people cheering.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Four more masks at various points along Kungsträdgårdsgatan, five along Hamngatan, but no sign of any trouble.

  Maybe that wasn’t so strange. As well as all the various soldiers and volunteers lining the route, she had seen at least twenty uniformed officers, and more in plain clothes. But the masks were growing in number.

  One more for each street they passed. That couldn’t be coincidence. Something was clearly going on.

  They turned right at Sergel’s Square, skirting around the glass obelisk, and the cheers were so loud she could hardly hear her radio when it crackled to life.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hötorget was full of people, and he had to elbow his way through. The closer he got to Sveavägen, the thicker the crowd got, and he realized he needed an alternative plan. The subway, of course!

  He turned around and ran back down Sergelgatan, then veered in between two of the skyscrapers, trying not to look up.

  He leaped over the barriers, took the steps in three strides, and raced along the platform to the northern end of the station. As he ran he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “All bodyguards. A person matching the description of one of the suspects has just been seen at Hötorget.”

  The voice on the radio was Stigsson’s, she was almost certain of that.

  Her mouth felt bone-dry and she swallowed several times in an attempt to moisten it. To no avail.

  “Is everything okay, Normén, over?”

  “Fine, Ludvig . . .”

  “Good, everyone, stay alert. These masks are worrying me . . .”

  Sveavägen now, seven masks.

  One more than Sergel’s Torg. The front part of the cortege began to swing down into Kungsgatan.

  Her cell started to ring, but she ignored it.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  No answer, fuck!

  He emerged from the north exit of the station, pushing his way out onto the sidewalk.

  The street was lined with people in uniform, but they seemed there largely for decoration.

  The Malmskillnad Bridge was just fifty meters away to the right.

  He pulled his hood up over his head, got his sunglasses out of his pocket, and started to force his way through toward it.

  In the distance he could hear the sound of hooves.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She saw the masks just as the carriage started to turn. They were standing in a row this time. Eight of them, then even more.

  A lot more . . .

  “I don’t like this . . .” Runeberg muttered.

  Her phone was still ringing in her right ear.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  He was fifteen meters away when he saw the pattern under the arch of the bridge. Three-dimensional orange-pink geometric shapes edged with blue curled upward in a hypnotically regular pattern. Just like on the plan, the pattern looked like a labyrinth.

  The Luttern labyrinth!

  He’d found it!

  The sound of hooves was getting louder, echoing off the buildings and merging with the cheering of the crowds.

  A moment later he caught sight of the large, black air vents at either end of the arch. Five meters above the sidewalk, at a perfect angle to the roadway.

  Two circular grilles, exactly matching the description on the Carer’s plan, approximately one meter in diameter. Or 1016.1 millimeters, to be precise . . .

  Fucking hell!!

  The first horses in the escort had almost reached the bridge. He put his cell phone away and pushed the people in front of him out of his path, elbowing his way out into the road, and then started running toward the cortege. His backpack was still bouncing up and down on his back. It felt heavier than ever . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She saw him from a distance.

  Dark clothing, scruffy beard, sunglasses, and a hood pulled over his head. The light gray straps of a backpack were clearly visible across his chest. He was running straight toward the carriage, toward her.

  Waving his arms and shouting something.

  Her hands went straight to her belt. Grabbed the handle of her pistol. Draw—take aim . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Bomb!” he yelled. “There’s a bomb over there!”

  But she didn’t seem to hear him. Instead he saw her and the other bodyguards aim their guns at him. As if he were the real threat.

  A moment later he saw the masks. All around them, lining the street, fifty, a hundred, more. As if they were waiting for something. And suddenly he realized . . .

  The world went into slow motion as the pieces of the puzzle in his head flew into the air, breaking up the image he had so carefully put together, and forming a new one in its place.

  One that was far more horrifying.

  The tunnel, the bomb, the explosion in the barn. Strong arms dragging him out of the snake flat, injecting him with serum. Someone standing outside the door of the flat out by the Woodland Cemetery and sending text messages. Warning him about a traitor.

  The explosion, Rehyman, running away.

  Nora, fastening his backpack so carefully. Giving him the location, the last piece of the puzzle. The fatal kiss . . .

  He stopped abruptly and raised his hands. Voices were echoing inside his head, drowning one another out. Some of them clear, some of them muffled.

  This is your last task, Henrik!

  Red or black?

  You are to carry out a deadly attack against the royal wedding . . .

  Wanna play a game, Henrik Pettersson?

  Luttern, not Gluten.

  The Carer, I don’t know him . . .

  Are you absolutely sure?

  Not the Carer . . .

  He backed away slowly, pulling at the straps to get the backpack off. But the lock wouldn’t budge.

  “Get back!” he yelled as loudly as he could.

  People come to the Luttern labyrinth to die! the voice in his head whispered.

  Not.

  Carer.

  But . . . ?

  Bearer!

  “There’s a bomb in this backpack!” he yelled.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She took aim at the center of the death zone, right where the straps of the backpack crossed his heart.

  “Bomb!” someone yelled over the radio, and for a moment she thought it was Tage Sammer’s voice she’d heard. But the warning was completely superfluous.

  She squeezed the trigger.

  Breathed in . . .

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Like a punch in the chest—that was pretty much what it felt like. In a weird way the blow seemed to slow everything down even more. All of a sudden he could appreciate the tiniest details around him. The gun aimed at his chest, the drawn-out, panic-stricken screams from the surrounding crowd. All around him, bodies crushed together in slow motion. Trying to get as far away from him as possible.

  But in spite of the evidence, in spite of the gunpowder stinging his nostrils and the shot still reverberating in his eardrums, his brain refused to accept what was happening. As if it were fending off the impossible, the unthinkable, the incomprehensible . . .

  This simply couldn’t be happening.

  Not now!

  She had shot him . . .

  SHE

  HAD

  SHOT

  HIM!!

  The pistol was still pointing straight at his chest. The look on her face behind the barrel was ice-cold, completely emotionless. As if it belonged to someone else. A stranger.

  He tried to raise his hand toward her, opened his mouth to say something. But the only sound that passed his lips was a sort of whimper. Suddenly and without any warning time sped up and returned to normal. The pain spread like a wave from his rib cage, out through his body, making the tarmac beneath him lurch. H
is knees gave way and he took a couple of stumbling steps backward in an attempt to keep his balance.

  His heel hit the edge of the curb.

  A second of weightlessness as he fought the law of gravity.

  Then a dreamlike sensation of falling freely.

  And with that his part in the Game was over.

  33

  MASTERMIND

  THE EXPLOSION WAS so powerful that she felt it in her chest. It echoed between the buildings before it was followed by a second, then a third.

  The plumes of light shot up into the night sky, white, red, blue. Other fireworks followed.

  Over in the distance, near the Palace, the crowds roared.

  “Spectacular, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She climbed the last few rungs to the platform and joined him at the railing. A few meters above their heads the massive neon sign rotated, as the green NK logo was replaced by a red clock.

  “My dear Rebecca, I’m so very sorry, from the bottom of my heart . . .” He turned to her and held out his arms. “Obviously some of the responsibility must fall on me.”

  She went over and put her arms around his neck.

  “Thanks, Uncle Tage . . .” she said into his shoulder.

  “Is there anything I can do, my dear?” He leaned back and took a gentle grasp of her upper arms.

  “No, not at the moment, anyway.”

  She looked away, toward the Palace, where more rockets were shooting up.

  “Losing a brother like that. And having to do it yourself . . .” He shook his head.

  She didn’t reply and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

  “My dear Rebecca, I can’t begin to imagine how you must be feeling . . .”

  The sadness in his voice cut through her like a knife, and for a moment her feelings threatened to overwhelm her. But she quickly pulled herself together.

  “My plan went wrong, terribly wrong, and in spite of all our efforts I’m afraid Henrik couldn’t be saved,” he went on. “Henrik was carrying a bomb, and it was only thanks to your judicious intervention that he didn’t have the chance to set it off. He knew about it, even shouted out that he was carrying it . . .”

  Tage Sammer held his hands out and took a step back.

  “Henrik had made his choice, and you were forced to make yours. You saved a lot of lives this afternoon, I hope you realize that. Sometimes the good of the many has to take priority over that of the individual . . .”

  She gulped hard, then nodded slowly. Tears were pricking her eyes, but she did her utmost to restrain herself. To keep control . . .

  More fireworks shot up into the night sky.

  “Brave decision, to carry on with the wedding festivities,” she muttered. “And he made a good speech . . .”

  “Yes, it’s easy to underestimate His Majesty. It’s at times like this that people show their true mettle. His televised speech was fine proof of that.”

  “Mmm,” she said.

  “The nation needs a uniting force,” he went on. “Someone who can help us stand strong in the face of the trials ahead. His Majesty understands that . . .”

  “Or his PR department does . . .”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Nothing,” she mumbled. “It just all felt so premeditated, as if . . .”

  “As if what, Rebecca . . . ?”

  He tilted his head and looked at her curiously.

  “Nothing . . .” she said quietly. “Sorry, I’m not quite myself, Uncle Tage.”

  “My dear Rebecca, I quite understand. You have nothing to apologize for . . .”

  She turned toward the railing and they stood in silence next to each other for a while.

  “S-so, what happens now? With the investigation, I mean?” she finally said.

  He shrugged.

  “Magnus Sandström and your brother are gone, and the other three are locked away. Even if a few details remain, the case is fundamentally solved. The Game has been crushed and the guilty will get their punishment . . .”

  “It can’t be quite that simple, Uncle Tage . . .”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There must be something more behind it, there must be more people involved. For instance, who made the bomb in Henke’s backpack, and who were all those people in masks?”

  “Well, as far as we know any one of them could have been behind the bomb. Sandström is probably the likeliest candidate . . . The masked protestors along the route might well have been sheer coincidence. Sometimes conspiracy theories are just a convenient way to avoid having to deal with the difficulties of reality . . .”

  “What about Dad?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He worked for you, did everything you asked of him. Pretty much like me . . .”

  Her stomach lurched and she had to break off.

  “That’s true, Erland was a particularly loyal colleague. There’s always room for people like that in most organizations, Rebecca.”

  He waited for the words to sink in.

  “Are . . . are you offering me a job, Uncle Tage?”

  He smiled gently.

  “If I were, would you accept, Rebecca? I think we could be an excellent team. Someone with your decisiveness, your self-control. Who doesn’t hesitate to do what is necessary, however unpalatable it might be. There’s room for that sort of person in every organization . . .”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I already have a job, you know that. Once all this has died down I think I’d like to go back to it. Try to help find out exactly what happened down there . . .” She gestured toward the two towers on either side of Kungsgatan, by the Malmskillnad Bridge.

  Sammer nodded slowly.

  “I didn’t really expect any other answer, Rebecca . . .”

  He bent down and picked up a check-patterned thermos from beside the railing.

  “Let me at least offer you a cup of coffee before we part.”

  “Thanks . . .”

  He conjured up two cups and filled them.

  “Have I told you why I’m so fond of this spot?”

  She shook her head and blew gently on the hot coffee.

  “My father worked for ASEA. He helped construct the clock in 1939. But back then it was mounted on the telephone company tower in Brunkebergstorg.”

  He pointed across the rooftops.

  “My father used to take me to look at it. Telling me how they got it up there. The tower was forty-five meters high, you see, a dizzy height in those days . . .”

  She nodded and slowly raised the cup to her lips.

  “I was very proud of my father, I even used to boast to friends about how he had constructed the clock all on his own . . .” he chuckled.

  “Then, in 1953, the tower caught fire, and the clock was taken down and placed in storage. My father died a couple of years later . . .”

  She studied his face in profile, the eaglelike hook of the nose. The taut skin over his cheeks, the dark eyes that reminded her so strongly of her father’s.

  “Fortunately, with the help of a few contacts, I eventually managed to get this mast constructed. And in that way my father’s clock could be restored to its rightful place . . .”

  Sammer turned and smiled at her.

  He was still holding the cup in his hand but didn’t seem to have touched his coffee.

  “Thanks for telling me the story, Uncle Tage, but I’d rather you—”

  “Talked about your father, yes, of course I can understand that. That’s why you’re here. You’re worried about what Erland might have done with that revolver. What the consequences of it might have been. So worried that you can’t sleep at night, is that right?”

  She nodded heavily, moving her head up and down as if it didn’t really want to obey her.

  “Poor Rebecca.” He smiled. “The past few years can’t have been easy for you. Everything that’s happened: the crash at Lindhagensplan, the attack against the American secretary of state. By the way, the police
van containing the bomb was being driven by Henrik, but you’d probably already guessed that . . .”

  She opened her mouth and tried to say something.

  “Shh, don’t worry.” He put a gloved finger to his lips. “That can stay between us. And it was Henrik who threw the percussion grenade at the royal cortege in Kungsträdgården, but I’m sure you knew that already, not least once you had seen the footage in Police Headquarters.” He smiled, then pulled a slight grimace. “Henrik has been involved in a number of things. I’m actually going to miss him,” he chuckled. “In fact I daresay we all will . . . But my dear Rebecca, are you all right . . . ?”

  The plastic cup had fallen from her hand and hit the mesh floor with a clatter.

  “Perhaps you should sit down . . .”

  He gestured to the steps.

  She followed his advice, sank down on the top step, and leaned her head against the railing. The metal felt cool and soothing against her temple.

  “Poor Rebecca,” he said, walking slowly over to her. “Suspected of misuse of office in Darfur, fired from your job, and then your boyfriend left you. And today you were forced to shoot your own brother. So terribly tragic . . .”

  He gently stroked her forehead.

  The green letters on the sign above their heads turned into a clock, casting a red glow over his face. He leaned over and began to unbutton her jacket.

  “Such a shame that it has to end this way, my dear, but in my branch I’m afraid one can’t afford to leave any loose ends. In fact I’m almost rather surprised that your colleagues let you keep your gun, in light of what’s happened.”

  He felt around her belt, then pulled her service pistol from its holster.

  She made no attempt to stop him.

  “There’s no knowing what you might do, my dear Rebecca.”

  He turned the gun over, inspecting it for a few seconds.

  A tear seeped out of one of her eyes, then another.

  “Perhaps it would actually be a relief not to have to worry about it all anymore? The poor police officer, under such stress, shooting her own brother. The media won’t show any mercy. When you look at it like that, you might even say that I’m doing you a favor.”

  She looked at him, tried to open her mouth.

  “The . . . the coffee,” she finally said.

  “Oh, don’t worry. It’s the same substance you’re already taking. Just a little stronger. Look, it even says your name on the label . . .”