Читать книгу The Complete Game Trilogy: Game, Buzz, Bubble - Литагент HarperCollins USD, Anders de la Motte - Страница 24

Okay, so what the hell was he going to do now?

No job, no money, he’d had a row with his sister, his flat was uninhabitable and, maybe worst of all, he’d been chucked out of the Game!

The Goat had let him crash on his sofa for a couple of days, but all the coming and going and all the fucking dopehead dweebs who seemed to hang around in the flat all the time were driving him mad. Didn’t the bastards have jobs to go to?

He needed time to think, to go through his options and plan his next moves. Not that he had many lined up, exactly …

As usual, Manga was the one who stepped up. His old woman wasn’t exactly happy, but evidently their religion meant they had to be hospitable and generous to the poor, so she didn’t have much choice. But that didn’t mean that Betul missed any opportunity to scowl at him, no, she didn’t exactly hold back there. But HP ignored her from his comfortable lying position on their best Ikea sofa.

HP/Islam 1, miserable witch 0.

Something to be pleased about, anyway. That and the fact that he now had plenty of time to think. Betul didn’t like computers, which was pretty absurd when you considered what her husband did for a living. But seeing as she was head of the Al-Hassan family, there was no Playstation, no PC, nor any film channels to disturb his concentration, leaving HP with time to think at last.

A job could wait, he still had a few days left on unemployment benefit and something was bound to turn up. The flat would be fixed in a week or so. New paint, new floor and a new front door, all paid for by the insurance. Bloody lucky that Becca had kept up with the most important bills when he was short of cash.

So how could he make it up to her?

Sadly there was no good answer to that question.

Becca was furious with him, and for good reason. He’d crossed the line the other day, seriously marched over it. But he hadn’t actually had any choice. She mustn’t get caught up in this, at least not any more than she already was.

But it already looked like it was too late. They must have been watching him somehow. And saw her visiting him and thought he was spilling the beans again. Somewhere a mobile phone had flashed and a player, maybe even some fucking rookie, had been given the task of teaching the grass a lesson, the same way he had done with the door over in Birkastan.

A little home delivery, à la Game Master.

According to the cops, his wasn’t the first call to the emergency services. Someone had rung a few minutes earlier, probably around the time that they started the fire, so they presumably didn’t want to kill him. Not this time, anyway.

Which led him back to his original question. What was he going to do now? Did they really expect him just to forget everything, keep his mouth shut and never think about the Game again? Could he do that even if he wanted to?

Apart from the business with the stone and his sister, he had been run over, beaten up, given the third degree, had the shit scared out of him and then his flat set fire to.

So in other words, he had plenty of reasons to be pissed off.

But the sickest thing in this whole mess was that in spite of everything they’d done to him, he was still dreaming about getting back in, being forgiven and allowed to carry on playing.

Step back out onto the track to the applause of the spectators.

He could see it was wrong, that it was completely insane, in fact, but he still couldn’t shake the thought.

What if he could get in touch with someone, the Game Master himself perhaps? Say he was sorry and maybe get another chance? The question was just how to go about it? There was no contact list, sadly, and he had a fair idea that he wouldn’t have any luck with the Yellow Pages or Google.

Okay, he still had the mobile phone, but that had been dead since the fire. The battery must be exhausted by now. But all those hours on the sofa had at least given him one idea. Every modern mobile was a sort of little computer. They had at least two different types of memory where it ought to be possible to dig out something useful, if you only knew what you were doing.

Luckily he had the right man for the job. Straight out of One Thousand and One Nights: his own reluctant host, the world’s most browbeaten husband, the artist formerly known as … Manga!

‘I know you’re keen to have a look at this, Mangalito,’ he said an hour or so later, tossing the mobile on the shop counter. ‘It’s all yours. All I need to know is who’s been sending me messages and how I can turn the tables and contact them.’

Manga looked at him lazily over a copy of that day’s Metro without moving a finger, but he couldn’t fool HP. HP could see the corner of one of his friend’s eyes literally start to twitch. And, just like when they were playing poker, all you had to do was sit it out.

Easy peasy!

‘On one condition,’ Manga said after a few seconds of trying to look uninterested.

‘Whatever …!’

As long as it doesn’t break rule number one, HP thought to himself.

Manga grinned.

‘That from now on you call me Farook!’

‘Deal!’ HP said in relief, before he realized what he’d agreed to.

Oh well, if it would make the towel-head happy …

It had been a nice meal. Very good food, and a decent atmosphere. Thai, but without being kitsch the way Asian restaurants often were. There had been no trace of ‘Love Me Tender’ in Thai, or concertina lanterns with selected words of Buddhist wisdom. No, it had all been really good, in fact.

They’d done just the right amount of talking, had kept quiet while they were eating, and he hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when she declined the wine, just as he hadn’t questioned her explanation of a minor traffic accident to cover her injuries. Afterwards they’d exchanged a quick kiss, then they had each gone back home on their own.

She realized that it was the first time that had happened.

So what did that mean? Were they on their way to a proper relationship?

Absolutely not, she decided, firmly interrupting that line of thinking.

They had simply had a nice meal, talked about all manner of things, nothing of any great significance. He had talked about his parents’ farm in Södermanland, and how he had moved to the city to study instead of taking over the farm, and how he had been trying to stay out of the way as best he could.

‘Guilty conscience,’ he had said with a wry smile. Not being able to live up to expectations.

She understood perfectly what he meant. She had listened with interest and occasionally made a comment, though without volunteering the same level of confidence herself. But he had worked that out fairly quickly and hadn’t pushed her in that direction at all.

He was actually a nice guy. Better than she deserved.

‘I’ll call you later in the week,’ he had said, and she hadn’t protested.

She realized that she was looking forward to him calling, in fact.

‘Like some story in a bloody women’s magazine,’ she snorted.

She wondered how Henke was getting on?

But, then again, why should she care?

HP was impressed. After a bit of fiddling about, Manga – no, Farook – had managed to open a compartment on the phone that HP had never even noticed, and had plugged a USB cable into the little socket hidden inside. Obviously he should have known that there had to be a way into it, but he’d been so absorbed by what was happening on the screen that he hadn’t given any thought to the basics, such as how you charged the thing when the battery was exhausted.

As soon as Manga plugged the cable into one of the computers at the back of the shop a little charging light went on, so evidently it would work with any USB power-source.

A bit of nifty typing, then a load of symbols started rolling on one of the computer screens.

HP was by no means a novice when it came to computers, but this was out of his league, no question. Manga was a wiz at computers and maybe he’d be able to find out something useful.

‘This is going to take a while,’ he muttered, and HP agreed without protest to run a few errands in the city. In a fit of generosity, he even brought paper cups of latte back to the shop so they wouldn’t have to drink the bitter brewed coffee from the hotplate.

But when he got back something had changed. Manga seemed to have been practically waiting for him just inside the door. He grabbed HP’s arm and dragged him into the shop, almost spilling the lattes.

‘What the fuck are you doing, calm down!’

But Manga wasn’t listening. Instead he shut the door, locked it and changed the sign to ‘Closed’.

Without a word he pulled HP over to the corner where the computer was.

The three screens were showing a series of film-clips.

HP unscrewing the wheel nuts of a Ferrari.

HP blowing up the Horse-Guards in Kungsträdgården.

HP dropping a stone over a railing at Lindhagensplan and then a car with flashing blue lights rolling over and over until it came to rest with smoke rising from the engine …

His stomach clenched tight.

‘What the fuck are you really up to?’ Manga hissed, giving him an accusing stare.

So much for rule number one, then …

His third transgression in twenty-four hours, this was seriously not good.

Fucking mega not good!

‘Can that thing hear us?’ he said anxiously, pointing at the mobile.

‘What? No, of course it can’t!’ Manga snarled. ‘What the fuck is this about, HP?’

HP gave the phone another quick glance and, just to be sure, pulled Manga with him into the little cubbyhole behind the counter. He licked his lips nervously while he tried to gather his thoughts.

Purely technically, he had only broken the rules once. He hadn’t actually blabbed to his sister, even if the Game seemed to think he had and had punished him accordingly. So really he’d been punished for something he hadn’t done, which meant they owed him one. Besides, he needed Manga, sorry, Farook. Without him he wouldn’t be able to contact the Game.

So you could say that everyone gained from the violation of the rules that he was contemplating. He hadn’t expected Manga to be able to get any pictures out of it. An IP-address, maybe a server host somewhere, that was all he needed to get going. But when it came to technology his old friend was far too smart for his own good. So how could he get Manga to go along with his plan?

‘Okay, it’s like this … Farook,’ he said, tasting the unfamiliar name cautiously.

He had to play this on Manga’s terms …

‘Like I told you, I found the mobile on the train from Märsta the other week, but what I didn’t tell you is that it invited me to play a game. A rather special game, actually …’

In retrospect she realized that she already knew it was going to be there. She’d had an uneasy feeling ever since she entered the changing room and when she opened her locker she realized why.

Another official white post-it note with red writing, neatly stuck to the edge of the shelf, just like the one before.

And just like the last one, she realized the note was right. It should have been her. It would have been fairer somehow if it was her body instead of Kruse’s that got smashed up in the car. An eye for an eye, you could almost say. Then she would have been able to move on at last. Put it all behind her. Maybe, anyway.

But it couldn’t go on like this.

First there were the notes, which were appearing more and more often, then Henke going crazy, and then Micke, who had suddenly broken their usual pattern without warning. She had to get a grip on things, regain control over her own life. She couldn’t put it off any longer, she had to do it now. And she had to start with Nilla.

HP had actually stuck to the truth. Almost, anyway. The only thing he left out was the small fact that his sister had been in the cop-car that he hit over at Lindhagens. But otherwise it had pretty much been nothing but the truth … Possibly with one or two minor exceptions. Manga would never buy the fact that he wanted to carry on playing. Which wasn’t so strange. He could hardly believe it himself, that he was even considering anything like that. And Manga was no longer the gambling type. Apart from the occasional World of Warcraft session, where he kept on going with his tired old Paladin character, nowadays he played it safe. Wife and child, flat in the suburbs and all that.

He’d forgotten the kick you got from gaming, the rush from the adrenalin coursing through your body, and, even more important: Manga had no idea what it was like to feel chosen, appreciated, and to get loads of cred from an entire fucking world!

So he ended up covering his motives with a little white lie …

He said he wanted to find out who was behind the Game, maybe give an anonymous tip-off to one of the evening papers, or Crimewatch or something like that? A bit of payback for all the shit he’d had to take. Manga bought it without question, and why not? It could very easily have been true.

He was able to dig out a server address more or less instantly, but after that things ground to a complete halt. HP got a bit down-hearted but Manga wasn’t the sort to give up just like that. From what they could work out, the server appeared to be in Sweden, and if it was, then that meant that somewhere in cyberspace there was someone who had sold, installed and configured it. The odds that such a person would be somewhere in Manga’s network of contacts were pretty good.

He’d put out a few tentative feelers and they’d have to wait to see if there was any response. That wasn’t quite the scenario HP had been hoping for. Patience and waiting were definitely not his bag, but on the other hand he didn’t really have much choice.

He’d just have to grin and bear it.

A GroupWise message was really all it took to get going. She soon found Nilla’s email address on the internal contact list, even though she had a different surname, but it had been thirteen years and she had almost counted on Nilla being married by now.

So what was the best way to put it?

It took Rebecca over an hour to compose the email, and in the end she realized that if she was ever going to send it, she would have to keep it short.

But when she moved the cursor to the send button, she suddenly felt hesitant. Her index finger was left hanging in the air above the mouse button. Was this really such a good idea?

What sort of answer was she expecting? Sure, I’d love to talk to you, Rebecca. Let’s meet for coffee and chat about old times. Maybe you could tell me what happened the night my brother was murdered?

She moved the mouse away. She’d have to leave it for another day when she’d had time to think it through more thoroughly. Thirteen years had passed already, so a few more days wouldn’t make any difference.

When the telephone rang HP sat up with a jerk. It took him a few seconds to work out where he was, and what the stupid tune resounding through the flat actually meant.

Manga, correction, Farook’s flat, with him on the sofa, the room still dark. He blinked a few times to see the clock on the television. Who the hell was calling the Al-Hassan residence at 02:10 at night?

The ringing stopped, they must have answered in the bedroom. Then the baby started to scream. A couple of minutes later a bleary-eyed Manga appeared in the living room, wearing one of those full-length white nightshirts that he seemed to wear all the time these days.

‘The burglar alarm has gone off in the shop, you can come with me into the city,’ he slurred as he buttoned his harem trousers.

‘The security company and the cops are already there, so it’s kind of urgent. Get your clothes on while I go to the toilet …’

HP crawled off the sofa and pulled on his jeans and trainers without protest.

Just before they set off, Betul the witch stuck her head out of the nursery and gave him the evil eye, but that wasn’t the reason HP felt an uneasy lump in his stomach.

‘Has this happened before?’ he asked with feigned nonchalance while Manga beat the crap out of his little Polo as they crossed the Liljeholmen Bridge.

‘A couple of times over the years,’ he muttered through his teeth as he swerved through a red light. ‘But not since we put bars on the windows and installed a camera inside. According to the security company the thieves didn’t get in, but apparently the cops want me there straightaway. Wonder why?’

HP kept quiet and clung on to the handle above the door. The lump in his stomach was growing exponentially.

Four minutes later Manga pulled up sharply outside the shop. The security firm’s car and two cop-cars were parked outside, and a bit further away stood a fire-engine.

To HP’s relief, the shop seemed to be undamaged.

‘Hello,’ one of the policemen said as they arrived. ‘Selini, Södermalm Police.’ He pulled a notepad from his trouser pocket and nodded to HP. ‘Are you the owner?’

‘No, I am, Farook Al-Hassan.’

The policeman gave Manga and his middle-eastern appearance a long look, but said nothing.

‘Okay, we’ll need a few personal details and so on in a bit, but I’d like to show you this first.’

He led them towards the entrance. The door of the shop was open and the cop explained that the security guards had opened it up, as well as the roller blind, to check for damage inside.

‘We were just round the corner when the alarm went off,’ he went on chattily, ‘so we came close to catching them red-handed. Two blokes on a moped. My partner reckons one of them was watching while the other one broke the window, possibly filming the action. Crime videos like that are getting more and more common, happy-slapping and all that …’

HP had suddenly gone ice-cold. He opened his mouth to say something but the policeman interrupted him.

‘Either way, there wasn’t much action, they ran and we pursued them until they turned into a cycle path through Tantolunden.’

They reached the front door and the policeman indicated a fist-sized hole in the window alongside. ‘They must have used an emergency hammer or something like that to break the glass.’

The window was full of what looked like snow, like a Christmas display. All that was missing were a couple of plastic reindeer and a chocolate Santa Claus, HP noted, almost in amusement.

‘I emptied our fire-extinguisher through the hole so it never caught properly. There’ll be a bit of cleaning up, but that’s better than the alternative …’ The policeman shrugged.

HP’s stomach had clenched solid and he was having trouble breathing. The cop’s voice sounded like it was slowed down.

‘A few soaked rags and probably some more paraffin through the hole. It doesn’t look like they were planning a robbery, just wanted to start a fire. I don’t suppose you happen to have acquired any enemies recently, Mr, er … Al-Hassan?’

‘No, not as far as I know,’ Manga replied, giving HP a long look.

They both sat in silence on the way home. Thoughts were whirling through HP’s head, he was desperate for a fag but knew he’d make himself even less popular if he lit up in the car.

This was the second warning, albeit something of a failure, but still. If the cops hadn’t happened to come round the corner when they did, the computer shop wouldn’t be there now. The whole thing would have gone up in smoke, just like that. Whoosh!

And all because he had chosen to break rule number one again.

He’d dragged Manga into this and it had almost cost Manga his shop. In other words, they must have been watching them somehow, either electronically, or else there were people out there following him.

The thought made HP’s skin crawl. He couldn’t help looking in the wing-mirror. There was a car behind them, a Ford, to judge by the lights. It was keeping its distance, didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

‘My mum’s sister’s got a small cottage on a allotment in Tanto,’ Manga said curtly, and it took HP a couple of seconds before he worked out what Manga meant.

‘I’ll move out tomorrow.’

Silence filled the car again.

Another glance in the mirror, the Ford was still there. Its nearside headlight was more yellow than the other one. A replacement rather than the original, HP guessed.

Now Manga seemed to have noticed that something was up, because he too was taking long looks in the rear-view mirror.

‘I need to make a couple of calls,’ he muttered, clutching the wheel. ‘We need to work out who these bastards are, HP, and once we’ve done that, you have to promise me that you’re going to give them some serious payback from me. Kick some ass, you get me?’

HP smiled and nodded.

‘I promise, Manga,’ and this time Manga didn’t correct him.

They fell silent again.

He tried to think. Could he really promise Manga that he’d whip the Game Master’s backside? Sure, he was fucking upset with the way they were treating him, and this latest move on his friend had definitely crossed the line.

But still. What a couple of wankstas they must have sent to do the job! A couple of cretins who didn’t even check the area before they set to work. He’d seen a can of spray-paint in the gutter a few metres away. The cops didn’t seem to have noticed it, or if they had, they hadn’t linked it to the break-in.

But HP got the message, loud and clear. First set light to the shop, then write the message. All of it filmed. That sort of assignment would be worth a thousand points or so, maybe more. Not a job for newbies, in other words.

Give the job to Luca Brasi.

And yet they’d still managed to fuck it up, even though there were two of them! He could have handled something like that solo, but good people are hard to find, even for a Game Master, apparently.

After all, he’d been first Runner-up for a reason, number 128, the man that not even all the king’s horses could stop. If he could just talk to the Game Master, get a chance to explain himself.

He saw Manga cast another anxious glance in the rear-view mirror and decided to park any thoughts of that nature for the time being. Manga was looking completely paranoid now, as if he was going to burst any second, and his foot was on the floor of the battered little Polo, even though it had already had to work hard on its way into the city. It was shaking like it had Parkinson’s and HP quickly pulled on his seatbelt, even though it didn’t actually make him feel much safer.

The Ford was still some fifty metres behind them.

Their slip-road was getting closer, but Manga showed no sign of turning off.

Instead he stuck in the right-hand lane, slowing down a bit so that the Ford almost caught up with them.

Just as they were about to pass the slip-road he changed down a gear and suddenly wrenched the wheel to the right, making HP grab the door-handle in horror to stop himself flying out of his seat. The Polo’s tyres protested loudly and they missed the barrier at the end of the slip-road with the smallest possible margin, swerving up the road and flying through a red light, all without Manga so much as touching the brake-pedal.

‘Calm down, for fuck’s sake!’ HP yelled, trying to make himself heard above the pained howl of the Polo, but Manga didn’t seem to be listening. The knuckles clutching the wheel were white and he was grinding his jaw like he was on acid.

HP twisted his head to look for the Ford, but the road behind them was completely empty.

‘You can calm down, Manga,’ he said in a gentler tone of voice. ‘There’s no-one behind us.’

This time Manga seemed to hear him and, after checking and double-checking in the rear-view mirror, he eased up slightly on the accelerator.

HP sat up in his seat and took a couple of deep, relieved breaths. Manga wasn’t much of a driver at the best of times, and the Jason Bourne manoeuvre he had just pulled could have ended really badly.

The Ford seemed to have been completely halal, the driver hadn’t even swerved in an attempt to follow them, but Manga didn’t seem to have noticed that. Instead he seemed to be looking for new pursuers to flee from. They still had a way to go, and HP had to find a way to snap Manga out of this paranoia if they weren’t going to end up in Huddinge Hospital.

‘Listen, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask …’ he managed to splutter.

‘Shoot,’ Manga muttered, without taking his eyes from the rear-view mirror.

‘This whole carpet-seller routine of yours.’

‘Hmm …’

‘Well, I suppose I’m wondering why, really? I mean … you’ve tried a whole load of different stuff over the years. The vegan thing, local politics, Amnesty … You never stuck with any one thing for too long. Like that screen-saver you’ve got in the shop: If you don’t change …?’

‘… then what’s the point of anything happening to you?’ Manga concluded, and suddenly took a break from staring in the mirror. ‘Fuck, HP, sometimes you do listen to what I say!’

The trick worked, Manga’s jaw stopped grinding and his rigid grasp of the steering wheel relaxed slightly. A bit of practical philosophy and a few Couplandisms, that was Manga’s bag, he was considerably better at that than street-racing in the suburbs. Best to keep him in his comfort zone …

‘So why did you get hooked on Islam in particular?’ he blurted out, and found himself, to his own surprise, genuinely curious to know the answer. He didn’t really have any idea why Manga had converted. Bloody hell, what sort of a best friend was he, he’d never even asked …?

‘I mean, there’s a whole load of religions out there to choose from …’ he went on rather vaguely.

‘Well, giving to the poor, putting spiritual concerns above worldly ones, helping a brother in need … what’s not to like?’ Manga smiled wryly as the Polo’s speed slowed to a more normal level.

‘Women covered up, suicide bombers, holy war, there are quite a few options, aren’t there …?’

Manga sighed wearily.

‘Most of that has very little to do with religion, if you look below the surface … There are fanatics everywhere, but here in the West we get much more worked up about men in beards burning flags in Damascus than we do about smooth-shaven weirdos with bad haircuts blowing up abortion clinics in Detroit.’

‘So you mean the whole jihad thing is mainly a question of bad PR …?’

‘Something like that,’ Manga grinned, almost back to his normal self again. ‘Just like the Bible, the Koran is ninety per cent about living your life in a decent way, focusing on love and mercy and being a good person. The other ten per cent is stuff that might have been important for the survival of the tribe in the desert a fuck of a long time ago, but these days it’s basically nonsense. Unfortunately not everyone seems to have worked out that we’re living in the twenty-first century, or else they choose not to for a variety of reasons. That’s hardly unique to Islam. We’re good at focusing on the wrong things here in the West as well. Just look at the war on terror …’

He shook his head unhappily.

‘Fear is a strong instrument of power, brother, extremely strong, in fact. If you pluck the right strings the population stays docile, concentrates on idiotic rubbish and doesn’t complain about the things that are really important, like freedom of expression and thought and other fundamental human rights. It works both ways.’

‘So a lot of our lack of trust is a sort of mutual power trip? Each country’s Big Brother stands to gain if we stay scared of each other?’

‘Exactly, brother, you’ve hit the nail on the head!’ Manga hit the wheel with one hand.

HP shrugged. Bloody hell, maybe the Mangster actually had a point?

‘… and the name? I mean, I get the Al-Hassan, seeing as your dad’s name is Hasse, but why Farook?’

‘Well, as I’m sure you know, Magnus means “great”, which doesn’t exactly apply to me …’

HP couldn’t help grinning.

Manga was small and wiry, with thick glasses and his hairline was already halfway to the North Pole. In purely physical terms, he wasn’t what you’d call great.

‘I’ve never really felt much like a Magnus, and Manga sounds so eighties. It just seemed to make sense when I converted. Farook is someone who can tell good and bad apart. Someone who helps others find the right path. Religion helped me to sort out a whole load of stuff, and I hoped I might be able to do the same for other people.’

‘So that’s why you haven’t given up even on such a hopeless case as me? You’re my spiritual guide?’

‘Something like that, brother, something like that,’ Manga smiled, then turned on the car radio.

All readings back to normal, HP thought happily and slumped down slightly in his seat. But he couldn’t help taking the occasional surreptitious glance in the wing-mirror.

Rebecca was sitting outside the door to an anonymous conference room in the parliament building with a cup of coffee from a vending-machine in her hand. It was really far too early for her to be back at work, but she’d insisted and no-one had protested, not even Anderberg. Besides, the personal protection unit was on its knees in advance of the EU Presidency, and every man or woman who was able to work was welcome. All of the reserves had been called up, meaning that they had an extra twenty-five people who had previously served in the unit. But they were still having trouble covering all their duties.

Rebecca’s charge was behind the conference-room door, and, according to the schedule, would be there for at least another two hours. Wikström, with whom she was sharing the assignment, had just headed down to the canteen to have a quick lunch, and in half an hour’s time, when he got back, she would be doing the same.

Scenarios like this were what bodyguard work mainly consisted of. Waiting, more waiting, and then a move to a different location where the waiting would begin again. There was no way to pass the time apart from taking short walks along the corridor or talking to your colleagues. Books and MP3-players, the things other people used to pass the time, were obviously banned in her line of work. Nearly all of it was pure routine mixed with tedium. The difficulty was staying alert and ready for the brief periods that weren’t routine. She had already experienced more than her fair share of those …

She had four years left of her secondment to the Security Police, and she had already seen more action than most bodyguards did in their entire careers.

In spite of this, she still liked the job, the whole deal of being a protector, in charge of a situation. Detailed planning, checking routes and escape plans, thinking through every possible scenario with the others in the unit. If X occurs, I’ll do Y and you do Z.

The set-up was basically the same for each job, regardless of who was being protected. You just added more people and equipment if the threat-level was higher. You also had to plan for basic requirements, meals, toilet breaks, that sort of thing. Timetables and schedules were always changing, and lunch and dinner could suddenly fall by the wayside. Always have a few protein bars with you. She had been grateful for that piece of advice from an older colleague on more than one occasion when her blood-sugar levels had nearly gone through the floor.

Bodyguards were important to democracy, more so in recent years since attacks on politicians had become more common. The subjects she had encountered so far had been pleasant, almost grateful for their protection and had been careful to follow all instructions. But she hadn’t yet had the ‘honour’ of working in the royal protection unit …

His Majesty usually wanted the officers as far away from his royal person as possible. Ideally they should be invisible, or at least out of sight. That business with the explosion in Kungsträdgården seemed to have to changed his tune, though.

That had been completely crazy. At the time, His Royal Highness had been absolutely furious about what had happened, and hadn’t minced his words to his bodyguards. Evidently they hadn’t been close enough to protect him, which coming from him was rather ironic.

But after the first few days of hysteria the media had calmed down The explosion had frightened the horses but no one had been killed, and it had been a while since she last read an article confidently identifying the purpose of the attack.

Because the attack had been aimed at the head of state, the Security Police were in charge of the investigation, but to judge by Vahtola and Runeberg’s comments they didn’t exactly have any red-hot leads. ‘Single perpetrator on a moped, heading towards Birger Jarlsgatan.’ This had been the first description circulated, and she suspected that its single sentence pretty much summed up the findings of the investigation so far.

The door to the conference room opened and Rebecca stood up at once. But it was only one of the assistants coming out to fetch some more bottled water.

She glanced at the time and sat down on her chair to wait a bit longer. It was another three hours before the next shift came on duty.

The cottage wasn’t such a bad idea! It had electricity and running water. And Manga had loaned him a laptop with television reception that could crack all the coded channels. Okay, he’d have to shit in a little outhouse in the corner of the allotment, but that was no biggy. As long as he had HBO he could squeeze one out on a flowerbed if he had to.

He’d been very careful when he came out here. He’d packed just a few things in a rucksack, pillow, sleeping-bag and a little food, as well as the bag of grass he’d bought with the five hundred that Manga guiltily gave him as compensation for his failing hospitality. The miserable witch had looked pleased when HP left, but he didn’t care. Now at least he was his own man.

He had taken the underground to Slussen, then changed to the green line and headed all the way out to Fridhemsplan. Once he got there he pulled an old spy trick, waiting until the doors were about to close, then jumping straight onto a train heading back into the city.

Just to be sure he repeated the stunt at the central station before carrying on to Zinkensdamm where he stole a woman’s ramshackle bicycle and made his way up into Tantolunden.

Finding the right place had been easy, yellow wooden panelling with white windows and two big apple trees in the plot. He hadn’t been out here since he was a teenager and his gang used to hang around the mini-golf course to check out the girls and smoke the menthol cigarettes he’d nicked off his mum. Happy days …

Back then he had mainly thought that allotment cottages were pathetic, but now he was grown up he had to admit that having a miniature house wasn’t such a stupid idea, especially if you needed somewhere to hide away from the rest of the world. If the Game was going to find him here, they’d have to put in a bit of effort; he grinned, taking a deep drag of a fat joint.

Pretty nice living like this, close to nature, birdsong and a solitary lawnmower the only sounds. If he concentrated he could just about hear traffic in the distance, from Hornstull and Ringvägen, but it just seemed to fade into the background somehow.

He lazed about for a while on the rib-backed sofa in what was supposed to be the kitchen, but which, apart from the sofa and table, consisted of one cupboard and a tiny little sink. The sun was shining through the leaded window and he felt far more relaxed here than in Manga’s flat out in the suburbs.

Sweet!

A ping from the laptop woke him from his lethargy. He’d left the mobile in the shop and hadn’t had time to get a new one, so Messenger was his only contact with the outside world, and the only person who had his address was the Mangster, a.k.a. Farook.

Farook says: Salaam-Aleikum, brother HP!

Badboy.128 says: Hi Manga.

Farook says: How are things out in the model village?

Badboy.128 says: Pretty good, actually, say thanks to your aunt!

Farook says: will do!

Farook says: Have talked to some mates and one of them knows a bloke who might be able to help us.

Badboy.128 says: Sweet, should I call?

Farook says: No, you can’t get hold of him, only way is to meet him. Supposed to be a bit odd. Clever as fuck but a bit odd, yeah?

Badboy.128 says: Computer nerd?

Farook says: Yes and no, a real wiz a couple of years ago, I’ve actually heard of him, but these days he lives somewhere in the back of beyond off the grid, supposed to be allergic to electricity, that’s why no-one can call him.

Badboy.128 says: Doesn’t sound too damn promising …

Farook says: My mate says this bloke was involved in that server I found in the mobile, that he configured it and organized the whole set-up.

Badboy.128 says: Okay, I’m in!

Badboy.128 says: So what do we do?

Farook says: My mate’s going to contact the bloke and sort something out, he’s a bit of a recluse as well but my man thinks it’ll work. I’ll MSN you instructions when it’s sorted.

Badboy.128 says: ok fine.

Farook says: one more thing …

Badboy.128 says: Shoot, mr Pathfinder!

Farook says: please please don’t send me that file with the bouncing smileys, I have to reboot the machine just to get rid of them!!!!

Badboy.128 says: you mean these?

She read the message over and over again, without really understanding it.

Rebecca,

I and my family have nothing to say to you.

Pernilla

Nilla had replied to her email. And was blowing her out, pretty much as she’d expected. But there was just one problem. She’d never sent the email, just saved it in her Drafts folder to think about it. But when she checked the email had gone and she found it in the Sent folder, fired off yesterday afternoon apparently, just before they had shooting practice.

Nilla,

There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, something I’ve put off for far too long.

Could we meet for a short chat at a time and place that suits you?

Sincerely,

Rebecca Normén (formerly Pettersson)

Her own words, exactly as she remembered them, down to the last comma.

How the hell had that happened?

She remembered that she had had the computer on yesterday, but could an email really send itself? Was there some sort of automated function that sent drafts after a day or so?

She didn’t think there was, but on the other hand you never knew with the police computer system.

So what should she do now? She didn’t really have much choice. The notes were pretty clear. If she was going to get to the bottom of everything, she’d have to talk to Nilla, whether Nilla wanted to or not.

Just to be on the safe side she phoned her answer machine to explain to herself why she shouldn’t just back down.