Buzz: A Thriller Page 4
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FOREPLAY
Pillars of Society forum
Posted: 6 November, 20:04
By: MayBey
The only truth is that everyone is lying . . .
This post has 20 comments
HE REALLY OUGHT to be sleeping like a corpse. But not even a bout of sheet wrestling of that caliber was enough to get him to sleep.
Oh well. He was pretty used to lying awake by now.
The woman beside him shifted in her sleep and he turned his head to look at her.
She was lying with her back to him and had kicked off enough of the covers to reveal half of her suntanned upper body.
So, Anna Argos—presumably from one of the posher parts of London to judge from her upper-class English.
He’d seen her down by the pool.
He had been lying there admiring her minuscule bikini and wondering if he could be bothered to make a pass at her when she waved him over to her. The next moment he was rubbing suntan oil into the tattoo on her back, and ten minutes later, practically without any conversation at all, she was sitting astride his hips.
Isn’t this a nonsmoking room?
Christ, he was such a damned dickhead . . .
He raised his head from the pillow to get a better look at Miss Argos. What he could see of her face was smooth as a baby’s bottom, and probably just as natural as her tits. She’d tucked her blond hair behind her ear and as he leaned over her he caught a glimpse of a little white scar behind her earlobe that confirmed his suspicions.
He slowly ran his finger over the back of her neck, continued across her shoulder and down her arm, then suddenly stopped at a dark little bruise that he hadn’t noticed before. Curious, he ran his finger around it and carried on down her lower arm.
His touch made other similar marks begin to appear very faintly.
He turned his hand over. There were clear traces of flesh-colored skin cream on his fingertip.
Carefully, and suddenly feeling uneasy, he leaned farther forward to see the inside of her biceps.
“Are you still here?”
Anna was staring at him with a look that was anything but friendly.
“Er . . . yes,” he managed to say, sitting up.
“Then get the hell out, I don’t remember asking you to stay—did I?”
“Er . . . No . . .”
Shit—he really did have the gift of the gab today.
Okay, so she didn’t want to spend the morning curled up together—that was fine by him. He slid out of bed and started looking for his clothes, but evidently not quickly enough.
“Didn’t you hear me? Get—the—hell—out—of—here!”
She kicked out at him and managed a glancing blow to one of his buttocks.
“Okay, okay—take it easy!” he muttered as he hopped on one leg, trying to pull his bathing trunks on.
Two seconds later he slammed the door shut behind him.
Shit, what a fucking bitch!
What the hell was her problem?
But he already had the beginning of a theory . . .
♦ ♦ ♦
The old villa was big, at least six hundred square meters if you counted both floors—yet the atmosphere still felt claustrophobic.
She would actually have preferred to evacuate at once, stuffing everyone and everything in the government plane and leaving immediately. But the plane had only recently landed and the pilots had used up all their flying time. They needed at least eight hours’ rest before they could fly again, which meant they’d have to wait until early the following morning. Assuming the authorities let them go, of course . . .
She was talking on the phone to her Sudanese liaison officer every ten minutes, and Runeberg every hour. The liaison officer was trying to persuade them to stay, claiming that “the disorder was a regrettable incident caused by troublemakers who wanted to disrupt the relationship between Sudan and Sweden,” and that they “could guarantee their safety.”
But he wasn’t prepared to accept that there had been an assassin.
And he was hardly alone in that . . .
Upstairs, Gladh was furious, roaring so loudly both at his assistant, Håkan Berglund, and down the phone, that even the guards on the gate must have been able to hear him.
The minister, on the other hand, wasn’t saying much. She had shut herself in her room and was letting her press secretary deal with everything.
“Ann-Christin is a little under the weather. She was travel sick in the plane, and then with this . . .”
The press secretary nodded pointedly at Rebecca, and she could feel the other bodyguards looking at her.
“ . . . attempted attack . . .” Rebecca filled in, in as steady a voice as she could muster. “An unknown assailant armed with a revolver approaching our car with the intention of firing at it. Fortunately he failed and we got away. My job is to see that we all get home in one piece, as soon as possible.”
The press secretary nodded benevolently.
“And we’re very grateful for that, Rebecca, we really are.”
The woman glanced at Gladh.
“It’s just that an evacuation might send out . . . well . . . the wrong signals, if you understand what I mean?”
“No, I don’t,” Rebecca said curtly.
Gladh flew up from his chair.
“We have an agenda, meetings—important people we’ve been working hard to arrange to see. The ambassador has staked his entire reputation on organizing this visit, and we’re suddenly thinking of calling the whole thing off because of a little . . . disturbance?”
Gladh’s face was pale, and he was firing out small drops of saliva.
“As far as I can see, the whole thing started when you decided that we should leave, Normén. Does anyone not share my opinion?”
He looked around the room, but no one said anything.
Rebecca tried to catch Malmén’s gaze, but he was looking down at the floor, along with the others in the team, and Håkan Berglund obediently had his eyes on his master. She took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.
“I made the decision to withdraw because the situation was too risky. Things were radically different from how they were yesterday, and my judgment was that we couldn’t proceed in a secure fashion. Aside from the general disturbance, surely the presence of the attacker proves that I was right?”
She looked at the others, but once again no one would look her in the eye—no one except Gladh.
“Surely you mean the attacker that only you saw, Normén? Isn’t it rather odd that no one else noticed him, not your colleagues, and not those of us inside the vehicles? Doesn’t that strike you as rather peculiar?”
He tilted his head to one side to emphasize his patronizing tone.
“Everything happened very quickly, there were loads of people and the dust was making it hard to see . . .” she began, but Gladh interrupted her.
“But surely your driver must have seen him? What was your name again? Modig?”
Karolina Modin looked up from the floor.
“Modin,” she said quietly.
“Yes, that was it . . . Well, Modin, we’ve all heard Normén tell us how this unknown assailant came running up toward the hood of the car with a revolver aimed straight at us. Didn’t you see him?”
Modin took a long look at Rebecca, then at Malmén, before replying.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You didn’t, you say, but your boss, who was right beside you, says she saw him clearly. Why do you think your stories don’t match?”
Modin squirmed and she gave Malmén another long glance.
“I was mostly looking behind us, I was concentrating on reversing, so I didn’t see much of what was going on in front of the car. There were people rushing about in all directions . . .”
“But a real-life attacker waving a big revolver, surely you should have noticed something like that? Or don’t you learn that sort of thing when you’re training to be a bodyguard?”
<
br /> His patronizing tone was enough to make Rebecca want to strangle the miserable old bastard, but she restrained herself. No matter what Gladh thought he was getting from this discussion, the final word was still hers. She was going to win; the only question was how Gladh would react.
Modin muttered something in response and Gladh shifted his attention to the group’s deputy leader.
“What about you, Malmén, that’s your name, isn’t it?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you see any assailant?”
“No, I didn’t, but like Modin and my own driver, I was concentrating on what was happening in the other direction. And I was trying to get the vehicle behind us to get out of the way, which wasn’t particularly easy . . .”
Gladh nodded and turned back toward Rebecca.
“As I said, what we appear to have here is a riot that was triggered by our own unplanned retreat, and a presumed assailant that only you saw, Normén. The matter is perfectly clear to me. There is no reason to break off this trip and the ambassador agrees with me. The interior minister has promised us a full armed escort and we will continue as planned tomorrow morning.”
He looked around the group with satisfaction, as though the matter were settled.
“No, we won’t,” Rebecca said firmly. “You seem to be in some confusion about my role and authority here, Gladh. I have ultimate responsibility for the minister and my team—not you, and not the ambassador. My decision is that we will return home as soon as it’s light. If you don’t like that, you’re free to make a complaint to my boss, Superintendent Runeberg.”
She stood up and went out to the kitchen.
Over and out, you arrogant, scrawny little pen pusher!
♦ ♦ ♦
Four plus one.
That was how those marks were described on CSI.
Four fingers on the back of the arm and a thumb on the front. He’d seen them before, in Real Life . . .
He took a deep toke on the joint and held his breath for a few seconds before sending a column of sticky smoke up from the bed toward the smoke detector in the ceiling.
Anna Argos had been really angry when she woke up, but for some reason he got the feeling that her morning tantrum had more to do with his discovery of the bruises than the fact that he was still in her bed.
He took another deep drag and sent another puff of licorice toward the smoke detector.
Just as before there was no response from the pucklike device stuck on the ceiling, which wasn’t so odd considering that, like so many times before, he had carefully wrapped up the little killjoy with the complementary shower cap he’d found in the bathroom.
He couldn’t deny that Anna Argos has piqued his curiosity—so much so that he actually almost forgot his little trip into emo land.
Apart from the bruises there was something else that seemed a bit odd.
Anna was obviously a businesswoman, and people like that always kept their cell within arm’s length.
He’d looked for her cell while he was up in her suite. He checked every flat surface, both when she was dragging him to the bed and later, when she chucked him out. But he hadn’t seen it anywhere.
Obviously that could be a complete coincidence—but in hindsight he couldn’t shake the idea that she’d concealed her phone on purpose.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Malmén!”
He stopped in the corridor and she signaled to him to come into her room.
Simultaneously she ended the phone call she was in the middle of and gestured to him to sit down, but he remained standing.
“Make sure everything’s packed. Swedeforce 24 has got permission to take off at 07:00, so we’ll be setting off from here at 05:45.”
He nodded curtly.
“What about the cars?”
“We’ll leave them at the airport. For all I care, Gladh and Berglund can drive them back to Khartoum if they don’t want to come back to Stockholm with us.”
Malmén gave a wry smile and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, it’s your decision . . .”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
The anger she had managed to keep under control up to now suddenly boiled over.
“Nothing, calm down!”
“I am calm!” she snapped. “I just want to know what you mean when you say it’s my decision? You don’t share my conclusion that we should evacuate? Don’t you think there was an assailant either?”
“I was thinking about the cars, Normén, okay?”
She looked at him intently for a few seconds while she calmed down.
“Okay . . .”
It wasn’t until he had left the room that she realized that Malmén hadn’t answered her question.
♦ ♦ ♦
The sound of the phone ringing made him drop his spliff.
He had dozed off and spent a few confused seconds fumbling on the floor to stop the cigarette from burning a hole in the carpet.
“Hello . . . ?”
“Allo, Thomas, this is Vincent speaking, how are you, my friend?”
It took a few moments before his doped-up brain made the right connections.
Thomas was his latest alias—Thomas Andersen, from Trondheim in Norway. He’d been in prison with a small-time dealer from Bergen, and could gurgle enough of his incomprehensible Norwegian dialect to pass, even if they were celebrating their national day.
“Bonjour, Vincent, how’s it going?”
“Good, very good. Sorry we haven’t been in touch before, but we got a bit delayed in Goa. Had some trouble with the authorities, if you get my meaning . . .”
“Mmm . . .”
HP blew on the spliff to try to get it to burn better.
“Listen, Tommy, we’re thinking of heading out into the desert tomorrow evening. Do a bit of rally driving, have a barbecue, smoke a hookah with the Bedouins. D’you want to come?”
He took a deep drag.
“Yeah!”
“Great, we’ll pick you up around five. We’ve got plenty of room in the cars, so you’re welcome to bring someone if you want to. À tout à l’heure!”
HP hung up and grinned up at the ceiling.
A mysterious woman, nocturnal adventures in the desert.
Secrets waiting to be uncovered . . .
For the first time in ages he almost felt alive again.
Game on!
4
BAD LUCK CHARM
Pillars of Society forum
Posted: 7 November, 15:09
By: MayBey
Sometimes you just have to make the best of things . . .
This post has 26 comments
THE BIG VEHICLE lurched over the crown of the sand dune, hanging in the air for a moment before it began to slide sideways down the slope. Powdery sand flew up over the windows and for a moment the inside of the car was almost completely dark. Then the 4x4 swung in the other direction, the sand was shaken off, and the view cleared. The maneuver made all the passengers except HP burst out in roller-coaster whoops.
Twenty minutes of dune rallying and he already felt like throwing up.
Hash and beer really weren’t a very good warm-up combo for a desert safari. Hell, he felt rough!
To make everything even worse, Vincent had squeezed him into the little seat right at the back, next to the bags, where both visibility and the lurching were at their worst. The Frenchman had put himself next to Anna A, who naturally spoke perfect French. The pair of them, plus the other Frenchman in the car, had chattered like polecats on acid almost the whole way out here, leaving HP feeling seriously excluded.
But he had at least managed to pick up a bit of it.
Evidently Miss Argos wasn’t a Miss at all, but a Mrs., seeing as Vincent and the other guy started calling her Madame.
He guessed divorced rather than widowed, especially considering her bitchy attitude.
And Madame certainly seemed to have plenty of money, to judge from her overblown
suite in the hotel with its view of the gulf, and her presumably absurdly expensive clothes. The hot little safari outfit she showed up in on the dot of five o’clock had been fairly remarkable.
Vincent had immediately switched on the charm, full force. He kissed her hand and whipped out his flashy gold lighter the moment she held her cigarette in his direction.
All the smarming left HP feeling annoyed even before he had been stuffed into the luggage compartment, and things weren’t made any better by the fact that Madame Argos appeared to be ignoring him.
The car in front of them dived into another valley and a few seconds later theirs followed it. HP’s stomach turned another somersault and suddenly he felt a familiar sensation creep through his body.
“Bag,” he groaned, and the other passengers grinned as they passed him the crumpled plastic bag they had already taken bets on.
One thousand dirhams, HP had time to think before filling the bag with the contents of his stomach.
Damned expensive puke!
When his stomach finished cramping a few minutes later and he stumbled back toward the car, shamefaced and splattered with vomit, Anna Argos’s mocking laughter told him that his vomit had cost him considerably more than the bet.
“Let’s head straight for the Bedouin camp—no more hard driving, okay?”
The driver glanced at HP’s chalk-white face in the rearview mirror and merely nodded in reply. All the windows were open, the air-con was on full, but it was still impossible to escape the acrid smell emanating from his beard and clothes.
Anna leaned over and whispered something in Vincent’s ear. HP could see her lips almost touching the lobe of the Frenchman’s ear, and then they both burst into another peel of conspiratorial laughter.
No prizes for guessing who they were making fun of . . .
He made up his mind to ignore them and looked out of the side window instead. The sun was slowly turning into a red ball on the horizon, and the shadows of the sand dunes were getting longer and longer. Far in the distance some dark birds were circling slowly. Around and around, above the same point in the desert sand.
Their movement was peculiarly restful—almost hypnotic—and for a short while it made him forget about the lurching motion of the car.