Buzz: A Thriller (44 page)

“But you’ll stay in touch, Uncle Tage?”

“Don’t worry, Rebecca,” he replied in an almost amused tone of voice. “You’ll be hearing from me again. I promise.”

A few moments later he was swallowed up by the darkness.

♦  ♦  ♦

“Explain!” HP said as they trudged through the snow. “Quick, before I go completely mad!”

She couldn’t help smiling.

“Uncle Tage helped me with something, something important. In return I promised to help him arrange a meeting between the two of you. I’ve been a bit worried about you, so for the past few days a couple of my colleagues have been keeping an eye on you. They were the ones who picked you up at Hötorget. I’ve been keeping in touch with Malmén, the tall one, every now and then. So, didn’t you recognize him?”

“Er, who?”

“Uncle Tage, we went to stay at his summer cottage up in Rättvik when we were little.”

She tucked her hand under his arm.

“The blue clogs with our names on, don’t you remember? You never wanted to take them off . . .”

He just shook his head.

She emerged from the forest and headed over toward her car.

“So, what was it he wanted you to do?” she asked.

“Nothing special,” he said. “Nothing special at all . . .”

HE HAD ALMOST
reached passport control, and had just put his hand into the inside pocket of his coat when the men came up to him.

“Mr. Argos?” the first man said, an officer in full uniform of some sort.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Major Erdogan,” the officer replied, without introducing the two men in suits behind him.

“Can I see your passport, please?”

He handed over his passport and the officer inspected it carefully.

“Excellent,” he said, handing the passport to one of the men behind him. “I’m afraid you won’t be granted entry to Turkey, because you are under suspicion of committing a criminal offense in another country. These two gentlemen will make sure you end up on the right flight . . .”

“Nonsense! Turkey has no extradition treaty with Sweden. You have no right to do this!”

The officer smiled and exchanged a glance with the two suited men.

“Who said anything about Sweden?” he went on. “You’re
wanted for incitement to murder in the United Arab Emirates. Dubai, to be more precise, and these two gentlemen are here to pick you up.”

The men in suits stepped up to him and the shorter one, an amiable-looking little man with glasses and a mustache, held out his hand.

“My name is Colonel Aziz,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “And this is my colleague, Sergeant Moussad.”

He pointed his thumb toward the other man, who was thickset and whose coarse, unshaven features were covered by a mass of small scars.

“You’ll have to excuse the sergeant, I’m afraid he doesn’t speak English,” Aziz went on, with a trace of a smile.

“It’s good to meet you at last, Mr. Argos. We’ve waited a long time for the opportunity to talk to you.”

♦  ♦  ♦

“No need to get up,” she said, marching straight into his office.

“Ah, how lovely to see you,” Runeberg muttered, and slowly lowered his feet from the edge of his desk. “So, what are you doing here, Normén? You’re not due back until next week.”

“I just wanted to drop this off.”

She put a small pile of papers in front of him.

“And I’m afraid you’ll also be wanting this once you’ve read through that.”

She dug in her pocket, then slowly handed over her police ID.

“What the hell is this, Normén?”

He sat up straight in his chair.

“You were cleared of all charges. It looks like the whole Darfur incident was a setup, some kind of trap. And your actions
probably saved the lives of all involved, but you already know that. So, why do you want . . .”

“Leave of absence?” she interrupted. “Because I need to get away from here for a while.”

“Is this anything to do with . . . you know . . .”

“The website, you mean? Yes and no. It’s mostly just about me.”

She took a deep breath.

“My partner works for an IT security company. They’ve recently been bought up by a larger company that wants to expand its operations. I’m going to help them set up a personal security department. I’ll have a completely free hand, and plenty of resources . . .”

He was silent for a few seconds, then nodded.

“I understand. That sounds like the sort of offer you couldn’t refuse. But you’re putting me in a very difficult position here . . . We’re short of people as it is. The group . . .”

“My suggestion would be to put David Malmén in charge of the group.”

He gave her a long look.

“Something tells me you and Malmén have already discussed this.”

She didn’t reply.

“Okay, Becca, I’m not going to be difficult. But I want you to promise me something . . .”

“What, Ludvig?”

She allowed herself a little smile, which he was quick to return.

“That you’ll take good care of yourself.”

“I promise.” She smiled.

He grabbed a pen, signed the papers, then handed her a copy.

“There, you’re officially on leave of absence for a year. Well, then, I should probably just wish you good luck . . . ?”

“Thanks.”

She took the sheet of paper, folded it up, and put it in her rucksack.

“Just one question,” he called when she was on her way out of the door.

“What’s the name of the company you’re going to be working for?”

“PayTag,” she called back, waving in farewell.

♦  ♦  ♦

“Your telephone, Madame,” the little uniformed man said, handing her the receiver. “I said that you were resting, but the caller insisted that I wake you.”

“It’s okay, Sridhar,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting for this call.”

She took a deep breath, leaned back on the sunbed, and tried to collect her thoughts.

High above her a pair of birds was hovering.

Desert crows, just like in her dream.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, my dear, or is it still afternoon there?”

She raised her hand and squinted against the sun.

“Late afternoon, actually. But you’re not calling to ask what time it is, are you?”

“No, quite right. I have some good news. Very good news . . .”

For a few seconds she found it hard to say anything, her heart was beating so hard against her chest that she imagined she could almost see the fabric of her bikini move.

“Did everything . . . ?” she began.

“Exactly as we had hoped, even if events occasionally took a course we weren’t able to predict. But of course, that’s one of the delights of what we do. You’ll have a full report within the next few days. Until then, allow me to wish you a very happy continuation of your holiday.”

“Okay, thank you . . .”

“No, it’s us who should be thanking you, my dear. Thank you for choosing to do business with us.

“Well, good-bye, and take good care of yourself, Mrs. Argos.”

Turn the page for a teaser of the next thriller in the
GAME
trilogy,

BUBBLE

Outbox:
1 pending message.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Subject:
the Game

Fuck it, Mange, how did things end up like this?

It was all so easy back at the start. So innocent.

A mobile phone someone left behind on the train.

A phone that knew who I was, called me by my name.

Do you want to play a Game, Henrik Pettersson? YES or NO?

·  ·  ·

To start with everything went like clockwork. The tasks they gave me were pretty simple. Nick an umbrella, loosen the wheel nuts on a flash car, stop the clock on top of the NK department store.

The film clips looked good, the fans liked what they saw, and I started climbing the high-score list. Soaking up their praise and approval, aiming for the top, and trying to depose Kent Hasselqvist aka Player number 58 from his throne.

At almost any price . . .

That grass in Birkagatan whose door I spray painted, followed by his face. The attack on the royal procession.
The stone I dropped on those police cars from the Traneberg Bridge . . .

I didn’t even blink, Mange, I didn’t hesitate for a single fucking second . . .

I just did all I could to get to the top, to get the audience to love me. To get a bit of recognition.

·  ·  ·

But then I blew it. I broke rule number one:

Never talk about the Game to anyone.

First they chucked me out, then they gave me a warning. Set fire to my flat and tried to do the same to your computer shop. Not to mention Erman the nut, the hermit who got too involved and was now trying to live a low-tech life out in the sticks.

Didn’t do him much good, did it . . . ?

·  ·  ·

You are always playing the Game,
whether you like it or not.

·  ·  ·

So I fought back, big time. Blew their server farm sky-high. Emptied their bank account and took off. Lived the easy life on Asian beaches like everyone dreams of doing, really tried to enjoy my early retirement.

It was kind of okay . . .

You have to be careful about what you wish for . . .

I managed to lie low for fourteen months, until they caught up with me down in Dubai. They framed me for the murder of Anna Argos, and I ended up getting locked up and tortured. But I managed to wriggle out of their trap. And I decided to find out who wanted Anna dead. And me too, for that matter . . .

The answer seemed to lead back to her company,
Argoseye.com, and their undeniably shady business practices. Bribed bloggers, thousands of fake Internet identities, all making comments and giving scores that suited the company’s clients. All the different technological tools they used to suppress things and keep them hidden. Making certain things on the net seem invisible.

Like the Game, for instance . . .

But we beat them as well, even if it was at a cost. The trojan you designed that I planted in their computer system did exactly what it was supposed to.

It dragged the trolls out into daylight, and they burst. And shafted Philip Argos, the creepy bastard, and gave the rest of his little gang what they deserved.

Everything would have been fine.

If it hadn’t been for him.

Tage Sammer, or Uncle Tage as Becca calls him.

He claims he’s an old colleague of Dad’s from the military.

The old man might have fooled my sister, but I know who he really is. The Game Master. The brains behind the whole thing.

·  ·  ·

He’s given me a task, Mange.

One last task that will make me famous.

I’m trying to figure out a plan to get out of it.

To free both me and Becca from his grasp.

·  ·  ·

If you get this email, it’ll mean I’ve failed.

That they forced me to carry out the task.

And that I’m very probably dead . . .

It’s quiet at the moment.

·  ·  ·

But I know they’re out there, watching every step I take.

Soon it’s all going to kick off.

The question is: am I prepared to play one last game?

What do you think?

YES or NO?

Your old friend,

HP

This message is set to send at a future date

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 speeded 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. His 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.

THE MOMENT HE
woke up HP knew something was wrong. It took him a few seconds to put his finger on what it was.

It was quiet.

Far
too
quiet . . .

The bedroom faced out onto Guldgränd and he had long since got used to the constant sound of traffic on the Söderleden expressway a few hundred meters away. He hardly ever thought about it anymore.

But instead of the usual low rumble of traffic interspersed with the occasional siren, the summer night outside was completely silent.

He glanced at the clock radio: 03:58.

Roadwork
, he thought. Söderleden, Söder Mälarstrand, and the Slussen junction closed off for yet another round of make-do-and-mend . . . But besides the fact that Bob the Builder would have to be working in stealth mode, it was also slowly dawning on him that there were other noises missing. No one rattling doors as they delivered the morning papers, no drunks shouting down on Hornsgatan. In fact hardly any sound at
all to indicate that there was actually a vibrant capital city out there. As if his bedroom had been enclosed in a huge bubble, shutting the rest of the world out. Forcing him to live in his own little universe where the usual rules no longer applied.